


Mutually Assured Destruction

by yogurtgun



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: AU where Santino is Viggo's illegitimate son but he's still a D'Antonio, Abusive Parents, Anal Sex, Assassins & Hitmen, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Everything else is pretty much the same, Explosions, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, New York City, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, to translate: his mother did not give a flying fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-27 20:09:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20413597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/pseuds/yogurtgun
Summary: “If I keep bringing you to restaurants, will you keep ordering steaks?” Santino asks.“You were curious about who I am,” John shoots back, this time a reply on the ready.Certainly, Santino is still curious about the man behind the legend. It seems that most times the monster is subdued. As much as Santino wants to see Baba Yaga in action, he has to admit that there has to be, at least in part, something to counterbalance it.“So what, you’re indulging me?”“Figured you’ll get bored sooner or later,” Jon replies, straight-faced. “I’m just here for the food.”In which Santino finally meets the Baba Yaga, asks him out to lunch, and then is surprised when their dates keep happening.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'll be very brief here: I just wanted to point out that I de-aged the characters because the plot was placed before D'Antonio's had a seat at The Table. Santino is 31, Gianna 37, and John 41 (I based it off of the actors' ages and subtracted) though it doesn't really play too big of a factor in the work.

Even in autumn, New York streets tend to smell of garbage and piss. Decay’s in the air of the great city. Climatized cars carry in the stench of the muck they roll through. It seeped into the people who, for all their perfumed and cologned necks, forgot the mark they carry on their expensive, yet hideous, suits.

Santino is not glad to see that nothing has changed since his last visit.

Stepping out of the envoy car which has ferried him and Ares from the airport, Santino makes an effort not to breathe in too deeply as he crosses the street to the doors of his father’s empire.

The building, like few that still stand in New York, was built in the 30s Art-Deco style reminiscent of the Chrysler Building. However, unlike the monument of American culture, the hotel is still fitted with yellow lighting and red floors; a decor that has aged poorly. It became Tarasov headquarters seven years ago, after they’d succeeded in taking over one of Sinaloa’s heroin smuggling lines. Santino had been there for the celebration.

Ignoring the poorly dressed security littering the lobby after suffering an unnecessary pat down, Santino strides to the elevator and pushes the button. When it arrives, only Ares follows him in.

He’s been coming to New York for years to see his father. When he was younger, it had been more often; though he tries to be known to the generally rotating supply of family muscle. It seems he will have to re-introduce himself.

The elevator pings and Santino lets the frown drop, exiting with the same urgency with which he strode inside the building while Ares takes an inconspicuous position in the corner of the room.

Viggo had enough sense to renovate the upper levels of the building, meshing together his office, an ugly old table and uncomfortable chairs, with a lounge, leather couches which get hellish during summer, and an open bar, where Santino finds him sitting on a stool.

It is a more modern look what with all the glass and yet it endears it no more to Santino that the gauche lighting downstairs.

He wishes, not for the first time, he was still in Naples. Gianna and he were supposed to attend one of their cousin’s eighteenth birthday celebration later this week, and he knows she won’t forgive him for leaving her all alone.

“Ah, the prodigal son returns,” his father says in Russian. He stands and welcomes Santino with open arms, hugging him and kissing his cheeks.

“It’s been a while. Have you been well?” Santino replies with a smile. It’s not as disingenuine as Santino had thought he had to make it, which tells him more about himself than he would wish. Despite his best efforts, hating Viggo has never been one of his faults.

“Well,” Viggo replies. His gaze skids over Santino’s shoulder and his forehead creases. “I see that you have brought Ares with you.”

Viggo had never liked having security present when talking about family matters but it’s an old argument, rehashed through years of reunions.

“You know how _ nonna _ gets with me travelling,” Santino replies. Viggo has heard that as well. Technically, Ares is employed by her rather than Santino. He’s been Ares’ ward ever since he’d turned eighteen and gone to Rome for college.

Viggo makes a resigned noise in his throat at the mention of Santino’s grandmother then turns to the bar. “Heard Massimo absorbed another clan. Let’s toast.”

Santino inclines his head and takes a seat on one of the barstools. With Iosef absent from his welcome party -- notable only because he usually likes to get it over with quickly then avoid Santino like a well-dressed plague-- it seems Santino’s been granted a grace period. He’d needed a quick refresher course in Russian before he’d come to New York and now he’s glad he will, at least, be putting the lessons to use. Viggo refuses to speak English with family except when they’re in company.

Pouring them a finger from one of the more expensive bottles, Viggo pushes one of his crystal for-guests-only tumblers towards him. Vodka, of course. Santino’s gut churns even as they clink glasses and he knocks it back. After a ten hour flight he’s nauseous, exhausted, and wishes for nothing else but water and coffee. The jet lag is always hellish, no matter how often he makes the trip.

“You know how he is. Risk-averse. It was a long time in planning,” Santino says after he’s battled the vodka down.

It had not been planned, of course. Gianna, never failing to be like her father, had gotten a little trigger-happy, the vicious creature that she is. She’d forced her father’s hand, and as the head of the D’Antonio family, Massimo had to show strength.

Ruthlessness has always been her best characteristic, though she has yet to learn how to temper it though Santino can’t really fault her. They share more than blood. They share _ ambition _. He’d been there, planning the attack with her tête-à-tête.

Viggo humms thoughtfully. He drinks his vodka and pours himself another kind, something he has always enjoyed more. Tito’s. Only God knows why. He’s five thousand miles and at least twenty years away from slumming it in Moscow.

“They are still keeping you away from the business?” Viggo asks after he seats himself next to Santino.

“From the main things, yes,” Santino lies. He shrugs. “When they need a professional negotiator...well. Isn’t that why you wanted me here?”

Unlike most sons of prominent families, Santino’s life had been troubled by his unfortunate familial bonds. Tarasov still claims him as his son even though Santino was brought up a D’Antonio in the main villa right alongside Gianna.

Loyalties were, naturally, questioned.

It’s always a bad thing when loyalties are questioned in the System, especially not the loyalties of a whole house. It didn’t matter that his first language was Italian, he had an italian name and a passport to match. Santino was branded the moment the other families in the System found out his parentage.

However, thanks to his _ nonna _, who had spent most of her retirement days forcing Gianna and Santino from one birthday celebrations to another christening, Sunday church, weddings and funerals, Santino had still grown up making friends with the children in the System. Children, who have now grown up just as he’s grown up, and who know him and who, unlike their stubborn fathers, have little prejudice and a keen eye for his services.

Business school and an undergrad in law. Santino has become a professional consiglieri._ To balance _ , their nonna would say, _ Gianna’s worse impulses. _

“I wanted you home,” Viggo replies in that sort of stubborn tone he always uses whenever they breach the topic of family. Santino would think it a manipulation tactic, if he didn’t know better.

No, Viggo is a straightforward man. Santino respects him for that, and for the empire he has built for himself and for his stupid son that will be given the reins and promptly ruin it all.

Sometimes, Santino wonders if Viggo ever thought he made a mistake when he’d given Santino away. Iosef, as he’s turned out, lacks sense and interest in the business while eager to reap the benefits of his position. If Viggo doesn’t kill him, somewhere down the road, someone else will.

Softening his tone, Santino says, “And here I am. Now, do you wish to tell me the issue you want solved?”

Viggo sighs but before he can reply, Santino hears the glass doors pushing open and turns to see Iosef in a remarkably ugly grey suit.

“Santino,” he says, awkward in all his ways. “You’re back.”

“Surprise,” Santino replies dryly.

Iosef was born seven years after Santino, a few months after his birthday. His mother had gotten a card. Once, nonna had told Santino she’d replied with a brisk, ‘_ Hopefully not another mistake’. _

Originally, Santino had tried not to hate Iosef but he halted all attempts at civility when he realized that his efforts would never be returned.

However, under Viggo’s watchful gaze, they shake hands -- playing house.

“Why’re you here?” he asks.

“Must I need a reason to visit?” Santino challenges, rising an eyebrow.

“Be nice to your brother, Iosef,” Viggo warns, making Iosef’s frown all the more evident.

“Perhaps a walk would do you good,” Santino says, baring his teeth in a smile. “New York is so beautiful this time of year.”

With the day inching into noon, Santino is surprised to see Iosef conscious and present.

“Whatever,” Iosef snorts unattractively. He turns to Viggo and says, “I’m going out with Viktor and Gregori.”

Behind him, Avi pushes through with a little ‘_ excuse-me _ ’ and at once, Santino feels an oncoming headache. Viggo, he can tolerate. He can more than tolerate. Despite his efforts, he still likes his father. The same cannot be said for his numerous _ acquaintances _. After expansion, Viggo needed a business partner and a lawyer. Avi came in pre-packaged -- a jewish-american who knew how to handle the papers interested in turning a profit but having little to do with anything concretely illegal.

Santino would not dislike him if he wasn’t a hypocrite. After so long working with Viggo he still gets uncomfortable with anything even tangentially related to violence even though that’s the way he’s acquiring his riches. Not to mention, Santino notes when he has to shake hands with the man, he has yet to speak a lick of Russian.

“Well,” Santino says, happy to extricate himself from the situation. “It’s been a long flight. I’m going to rest.”

Santino’s just stood up when he sees the lift opening. Two guards from downstairs enter, bracketing a man dressed in a sensible black suit. Santino notices Viggo snapping his fingers, sending both Iosef and Avi out of the room immediately, and that he’s telling him something. Whatever it is, Santino cannot hear it. All of his attention, at once, is siphoned by the black hole that has just walked into the room.

He cannot help but think he’s seen the man before. Upon closer inspection, the suit is elegant but funeral, the tailoring of it tactical yet cutting pleasant sharp lines that accentuate the shoulders and the waist. A familiar work of the Continental tailor to be sure.

The man’s hands are bruised, relaxed at his sides. No obvious watch. Then he’s one of Viggo’s men. Security?

An unnatural stillness inhibits the man. It wakes alarms inside Santino’s mind that screech at him to do something be it fight or flight. His skin crawls, knowing that he’s in danger in that primal sort of way a gazelle might feel moment before a lion’s teeth sink into her throat.

_ No _ , Santino thinks, feeling a thrill go through him when he lifts his gaze up to the man’s face. Black eyes take his own hostage, peering at him. _ Baba Yaga _. It has to be him. Santino would recognize him anywhere.

He steps forward, drawn by the man’s unwavering gaze. His hair is black, slicked back, tucked behind his ears. Longer than any guard would be allowed. Sanino wants to mess it up as much as he wants John Wick to keep looking at him.

Santino offers his hand. “Santino,” he says. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Years ago, Santino had seen the boogeyman from a distance. He remembers that it had been John’s work that had propelled Viggo’s empire. After he’d taken on Sinaloa, John’s infamy rose to all-new-highs, turning him from monster to legend.

However, he had not had a chance to properly introduce himself. Viggo tended, as he still does, to keep family separate from the fixers.

“John,” he replies, shaking his hand. Whether man or monster, his eyes are still on Santino’s, and that’s the most important part. Santino knows the feeling in the pit of his belly, the tightness in his lungs, and it is not fear. “Once,” John adds slowly, “long ago.”

Santino’s lips curl into a smile. He’s pleased that John remembers him, even though he must have not posed a good picture then with all of his twenty-four years.

John’s hand is warm and firm. Gun callused. It thrills Santino even more. The man in front of him has killed more people than Santino can even dream of. The leashed horror. A revenant. How _ exciting _.

Their hands drop and Santino glances at Viggo who’s grown serious and tense. “Well,” he says, looking back at John. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Ares follows him into the elevator. With a smirk, Santino notes how John inclined his head to the side, as if listening to him go.

#### -

Despite the general horror of the city’s state of cleanliness, Santino stretches his legs to his car. He knows his father; Viggo will talk business for a while, allowing Santino time for a light lunch and, more importantly, coffee.

Unlike his usual pleasures, which Santino eagerly displays, the shop lay tucked away between a bookshop and a bar. Hidden from immediate gaze, it’s easy to overlook. However, being one of the few places serving true Neapolitan coffee in New York, Santino never misses a chance to visit whenever he has a craving.

He’d discovered it on accident a few years back. He was having his walk, or rather his drive, of shame at six in the morning and it had been the only place open.

Santino orders at the bar, has a shot of creamy and strong espresso, and feel his nerves settling. He orders two coffees to go, pays, and goes back to the car where Ares waits for him by the curb.

He hands her one of the cups and creamer. While she drinks her coffee Santino takes the time to choose a restaurant.

Manhattan has always been split between gangs. The Tarasov empire starts at 15th Street, bordering with the Bowery King, and stretches across Midtown, pushing into the borders of Upper East Side. It fractures apart past it, spilling into Albanian territory contained by Sinaloa in Harlem, while the Camorra have the monopoly on everything from Hell’s Kitchen up into Upper West Side.

Smaller gangs litter the areas between borders or operate within them per agreements. They tend to be outposts for operations that rely on Brooklyn and Chicago. Even the bratva doesn’t operate exclusively out of Manhattan, Viggo is just one of its ten paws.

The restaurant Santino has Ares drive him to is situated within the Camorra territory. As usual, Santino doesn’t have to wait too long to be seated or for a server to approach him.

So far from home, Italian men like a touch of home cooking when taking their meals, and there have always been plenty supported and visited by the System.

Santino spends his lunch observing the groups that pass through the restaurant’s revolving doors and doesn’t fail to notice the sluggishness in the men; something near imperceptible to those who didn’t grow up within the System.

Worst of all, he knows that even the Albanian who, arguably,like to show most teeth, have been calming down.

New York is in peace. Old, ill men like his uncle always want peace when they get what they want. Santino may not have much love for New York, but he likes what it represents: possibility, improvement, change. For D’Antonio family it means a chance for the grab of power. Real power. The High Table isn’t so tall that they cannot reach it. _ And _ , Santino thinks, _ he’s always been an entrepreneur. _

Italians already control three seats at the High Table: a chair for the Cosa Nostra, ‘Ndrangheta, and the Camorra each. The only problem is that, currently, the ass sitting on that chair representing Camorra isn’t a D’Antonio but a Morcone.

Massimo is difficult to convince, but Gianna and Santino have thought to change the situation for a while and in depth. By the end, Santino hopes his connection with the bratva will have finally paid off.

After lunch, Ares drives them back to the hotel. Santino enters the lobby just in time to watch the guards tense up as John Wick makes his way from the elevators towards the exit.

John notices Santino, and he comes to a stop right in front of him.

“John,” Santino acknowledges. “I apologize for such a quick exit.”

Santino feels the same electricity run down his spine as it had before. His primal brain starts screaming at him again making Santino smile, happy to let himself be pulled into John’s gravitation.

“Viggo doesn’t like me near family.”

“Does that bother you?”

John shrugs. No, Santino imagines not much bothers the man in front of him. His dark eyes are overwhelming, all-seeing, and now, focused solely on Santino. He wants John looking at him. There’s something reckless within him that wants to keep the man’s attention, but which also wants to be entertained and it brings out his worst impulses.

Santino smirks and says, “Well, I would be happy to share your company. I have some business to finish tomorrow. Join me?”

“Sure,” Jon replies.

Santino smiles and keeps smiling until he’s in the lift and Ares is signing at him, _ Is this wise? _

_ I want to see what kind of a man he is _, Santino replies.

Ares presses her lips together. Not a good sign.

_ Not sure he’s a man at all. _

So John had spooked even Ares. _ Amazing _, Santino thinks.

_ Even better, _ Santino signs.

Viggo isn’t particularly happy when Santino returns to the penthouse. “Good, you’re back. The situation’s gotten worse.”

Santino sighs and folds himself on the couch as Viggo brings him a few folders to review.

#### -

It’s an ugly hour in New York when Gianna calls. Santino considers ignoring it out of principle, even though she would be persistent, than sulk and refuse to talk to him for a week.

Santino doesn’t think he could survive a week just on a diet of Tarasovs so he picks up, only to hear Gianna’s cursing him out in Neapolitan. “Traitor! Judas in disguise! How could you?”

Santino rolls his eyes. “You can handle Camilla without me.”

“That’s not the point,” she hisses. “We had a deal to be miserable together.”

Santino shifts in his chair overlooking the street. His efforts in falling asleep have not been fruitful.

“No, you wanted me to chat up the girls so _ you _ wouldn’t have to spend the time _ socializing _,” Santino shoots back.

Camilla isn’t the problem. It’s all the other cousins, half-cousins, and family friends. So very often, business deals are hidden in plain sight, especially during celebrations such as these, and Gianna has always wanted to be involved in that rather than talking about luxury handbags.

Gianna clicks her tongue. “I hope you get shot you bastard. How are things?”

Used to Gianna’s particular flavor of familial love, Santino hums in agreement and proceeds to unspool his report while he considers the people running across the street below. He watches as an ugly old car pulls up and a familiar head of dark blond hair stepping out. If not for the truly terrible suit Iosef wears, he could have recognized him by his even more poorly dressed friends.

Santino glances at the clock. Viggo won’t be happy with Iosef and that brings him joy.

“Tumultuous,” Santino concludes. “The Morcone’s operation has been trying to muscle into Midtown from Hell’s Kitchen. The Serbians aren’t helping. They’ve been acting up near East Harlem.”

“Absorbing the Matinellas rocked their footing.”

“Chicago won’t be enough to cover their loses now that we control the Matinella estate. They’ve just established themselves there, but it’s a sign of the desperate if they’re pushing into bratva territory.” _ Never mind _ , Santino thinks, _ that the foot soldiers looked at ease _. It speaks of overconfidence from the top.

“Desperate or ambitious. There must be cracks,” Gianna says, a shark always smelling blood. “If we remove their operation in New York, the Calvano’s will move in Chicago. They’re well positioned.”

Removing someone from the High Table has always been tricky. Carlo Morcone is bulletproof. When the last Cosa Nostra head was sniped in the middle of the park, the Adjudicators had descended like hellhounds and found the agent who put the bullet in his head, those who provided that bullet, and those who paid for it, then killed all of them. It’s a clear message that has always ran strong -- the table is above all.

Santino cannot kill Carlo for the seat. Thankfully, there are always rules and guidelines to consult.

For instance: If one wants a seat they need to have a strong presence in the Americas. Removing Morcone’s presence in the States will automatically disqualify them. Then the D’Antonios can offer the table a better claim. It’s simple politics, made complicated only in execution.

“Has uncle relented?”

Gianna’s groans. “He will see how well you do first in removing the Marcone’s.”

True, they may not be able to kill Carlo, but the rest of his organization does not have the same protection.

“This is moving quickly,” Santino notes.

“It is moving just in time,” Gianna retorts. “Now, do you have anything more interesting to say?”

Santino considers telling her about meeting the _ Baba Yaga _ but, in the end, he refrains. Some things are just for him to enjoy.

#### -

Over morning coffee Santino goes through the papers again. The Morcones started skirmishes on Tasarov territory last month, just after Matinellas fell. The trouble started with some men harassing the staff at one of Tarasov-ran restaurants. It had escalated into shootings. Gunfights. Not war, but leading into it. They’ve already taken half a block.

It’s not important territory, however if they continue east, they will have stepped into the main supply chain. Viggo can’t afford that. Neither does he want a war, which is the reason why Santino is there in New York. Wars are expensive and won’t benefit him. They’re bad for business. The situation has unravelled as Gianna and he had predicted.

The more worrying part of the equation are the Serbians. There was a shootout at one of the clubs. Neither Santino nor Viggo need destabilization on the northern part.

“Good morning,” Viggo says, startling Santino out of his thoughts.

He’s up early, as usual. Their little tradition of taking breakfast together has remained intact despite the many late nights, early meetings, and perpetual hangovers. Clothed in a three piece suit, Viggo looks like he’s just come from a gala evening, not risen at -- Santino checks -- seven in the morning.

His father quirks a questioning eyebrow at Santino as he sits across from him at the breakfast table.

“Jetlag,” Santino says in reply. Santino is not the one to wake up first.

One of the servers immediately brings coffee, Turkish for Viggo, plates and cutlery. The morning spread, as usual, has a bit of everything and, as usual, Viggo sticks with dried meats, cheese and bread.

“Iosef is not up yet?” Viggo says, more a statement than a question. Iosef has been invited to their ritual many times but he’s decided to stay absent once again.

“Late night.” Santino downs his espresso. The server switches it for a cappuccino. Good man.

“That boy is going to kill me,” Viggo grumbles, sounding his age.

Santino, pointedly, ignores the topic. His little revenge complete, he places the folders and the papers onto the table. “Why is it that you don’t want family near John Wick?”

If possible, Viggo’s expression sours further. “That man is dangerous.”

“He is in service of the family,” Santino replies. He already knows John Wick is dangerous. All of them are.

He watches Viggo sigh and take a sip of his scalding coffee. “John has grown only more efficient since the Sinaloa business. Efficient and vicious. I’ve seen him kill three men with a _ pencil _.”

Santino knows the story. He supposes he should be scared, but Viggo’s words serve only to spark his curiosity. John doesn’t strike Santino as cruel, as a sadist, or particularly psychotic. The absence of usual independent variables makes him all the more interested in finding out what they are.

Viggo continues, “John is an attack dog. You tend to want attack dogs pointed at your enemies.”

Even Viggo, Santino notes as he watches his father wash the dark sludge of Turkish coffee down with water, is wary of John. Viggo isn’t usually in the business of sensing fear, only administering it.

“You may have more sense than Iosef, but I tell you I don’t want you anywhere near this man.”

Santino resists rolling his eyes and says, “What use would I have of John Wick? My business is in _ not _having people die.”

Viggo holds his gaze for a moment, then finally relaxes into his seat. “What do you have for me, son?”

“The Serbians should be dealt with first,” Santino proposes, glancing at the pictures spread in front of him. “Vučić must have had reassurances from someone otherwise he wouldn’t have acted up. Why have you not absorbed them yet? You could secure the distribution lines that way.”

“Home politics,” Viggo replies. Though his empire is very much his own, Viggo is still a part of the bratva. There must be some negotiations going on in Europe that prohibit Viggo taking action.

“So much for the _ brotherhood _. What about the Montenegrins?”

“They’ve been siding more with Albanians, to everyone’s surprise. There was a marriage. But they keep to themselves. They wouldn’t risk anything just for some counterfeit cigarettes.”

The smuggling routes run directly through Albania, the better part of Montenegro, and up into Kosovo until they reach their destination in Belgrade. Only a fraction of the product, mostly cocaine and marijuana, remains in the countries unlike North America where the product is concentrated due to high profit return. The worst transition countries suffer from are the legal poisons: tobacco and alcohol.

If the Montenegrin clans sided with Albanians it means they’ve finally gotten smart.

“Vučić is one of the old guard. He respects strength. An eye for an eye should solve this,” Santino says, returning all the photos and papers back into the folder.

“Santino,” Viggo warns, voice hard. “I don’t want a war.”

“They came into _ your _ bar with _ guns _. Employees were shot. There’s property damage,” Santino argues. “There won’t be a war, but they have to learn we pay with interest. Hit them where it hurts.”

Santino doesn’t know what the most important operations the Serbians have, but it doesn’t matter. Viggo does.

“They push product on our territory? We sell on theirs. They shoot up a bar? Well. We find their warehouses and hit one. Mess with the inventory. Confiscate goods that equate to the property damage.”

“We have insurance for these things,” Viggo reminds him.

“The only insurance that exists under the table is a marker and a gun,” Santino replies.

Viggo considers this for a moment. He rubs his forehead but relents. “Very well. I’ll see to it that Avi tasks his men. Kirill and his team should be enough.”

Satisfied, Santino finishes up his latte, and finally breaks into his croissant.

#### -

Having never been his father’s successor, Santino hadn’t been involved in the Tasarov business until after he finished college. At the topic of conflict of interest, Santino had been happy to point out that there was no conflict when there was no interest and that the D’Antonios gaze sat an ocean away, firmly pointing at Italy.

Iosef’s introduction to the business is more lackluster. Viggo must have been trying to involve him more over the past few months, slowly delegating more responsibilities. Santino understands how his father operates. Where he needs muscle, perhaps to set a car bomb or break into someone’s house, there is nobody more reliable than Iosef and his _ friends _.

As a consiglieri, and always invested in making Viggo richer, he regularly checks over documents for potential mistakes. Unlike Iosef, Santino’s mind runs towards profit, interest, expansion, and loopholes. Massimo had once told him he had an opportunistic mind, though Santino is still not sure if he’d meant it as a compliment. In his absence, Avi checks the numbers so it’s efficient to have him present to pour over the sheer volume of the documents. It takes the better part of the day.

Much to Santino’s displeasure, his meeting with Avi runs long until he either has to leave or shoot the man. He has other business to handle now that he’s in New York.

Ares and he leave in one of the vans, heading for the MET.

The D’Antonio presence in New York has always been small. They have a safehouse and a villa, but what business they do is all legitimate. Funding the restoration and upkeep of ancient artwork and paying for large, stupidly expensive paintings has always been a traditional D’Antonio way of investing into the future. Massimo has amassed quite a collection, part of which has been shipped to New York on borrow from Naples. It would be quite disappointing should anything happen.

Still in the car, Santino dials the number he’d been wanting to call ever since he swiped it from Viggo’s address book while looking for Vučić’s number. It rings thrice, then he hears a soft click, signaling that the call connected.

“_ Buonasera _, John,” Santino says, trying for charming. It always worked before. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me tonight if you have the time.”

Silence on the other end doesn’t discourage him. He waits until John replies, voice gruff, “Where?”

“In the Metropolitan Museum. Go right through the front doors and ask for me.”

“Okay,” he hears again, and then it clicks off. Well, at least he knows John Wick doesn’t waste words. He’s satisfied all the same.

Santino pushes out of the car and spends the next hour dealing with the museum curator. It is always pleasant to spend time with people who have more interest in the artwork than its price tag -- a real brain exercise in trying to grasp their ridiculous point of view. Plus, as an investor, they have to treat him well, and as a business partner, they allow champagne.

He’s gazing at the statue of Hercules in throes of anger when he feels a hand on his elbow. Santino startles, spilling some champagne on the floor, and turns around.

John is close. Some would say too close. Santino can feel the warmth of his body travel through the hand still wrapped around his arm. Yet, it is those dark eyes of his that enrapture Santino, and make him smile foolishly.

“Ciao, John,” Santino breathes.

“Santino,” John nods. His name lingers in the air, filling it with meaning. “Your security let me through.”

“Of course, I was expecting you.” John’s hand drops so Santino wraps his own around John’s and turns towards the rest of the gallery. “Come, the exhibition is not yet open to the public.”

John holds himself awkwardly with Santino’s hand crossed with his, but he doesn’t seem against the idea which is good. Santino feels his chest pounding, knows his pulse must be jack-rabbiting. John Wick, the man whom even Viggo Tarasov is afraid of, is on his arm. That kind of power is intoxicating.

They walk through the museum. When they reach the Civil War exhibit John asks, “What’s the job?”

“Excuse me?” Santino looks up at John’s perfectly composed face.

“You said you had business to take care of,” John replies, sounding mildly exasperated.

Santino realizes, belatedly, he could have worded that better. “Oh no. I do not require your services tonight, John. This is a social call. I am sorry to have made that unclear.”

He pulls away. John had not come here for him after all. He’d come because he thought Santino was giving him a mark. Shame.

“I see,” John says. Santino watches his shoulders uncurling as he breathes out, tension not bleeding from his body but fading away. The gun, Santino realizes, being holstered.

“You can leave if you wish to,” Santino offers. He so hates misunderstandings.

“Do you want me to go?” John asks.

“Would I have asked you to come if I just wanted you to leave?” Santino shoots back.

John’s mouth twitches and he offers his hand. Santino, for a moment, is disbelieving before he wraps his hand around John’s once again. So it isn’t just a job.

They don’t finish the tour of the museum. Santino grows impatient, so instead he asks a couple of minutes later, “How do you feel about dinner?”

John shrugs. “I could eat.”

#### -

Ares twitches, radiating discomfort the whole way to the restaurant. Whether it’s due to John Wick sitting right behind her, the proverbial hellhound breathing down her neck, or because the restaurant they’re heading to lays just on the border between Tarasov and Camorra territory, Santino has decided that for now he doesn’t care.

Marea is a trendy, chic seafood restaurant which lives up both to its name and it’s Michelin star. Santino would have picked it regardless of the conflict with the Camorra. He has no wish to deal with them, but he knows this is not one of the usual haunts. Besides, with John Wick by his side and Ares standing guard he doubts it would escalate beyond a few bullets finding their target in _ camorristi _heads.

Santino made a reservation yesterday, so he and John are led inside immediately. Ares hovers outside. She’s told him it’s a security nightmare, but currently, Santino is preoccupied with his guest.

John had no complaints about seafood, so Santino leaves him to pick something while he orders them wine. His pronunciation of Italian is good when ordering, compensating for the appalling pick of the bistecca. Or perhaps, fittingly American. Santino goes for octopus fusilli.

With the orders placed and the antipasti on its way, wine sparkling yellow in their glasses, Santino feels he’s done well.

“Do you speak Italian?” he asks, as a starter question. A safe realm, especially surrounded by civilians.

“A little,” John admits.

Where some men would fidget, adjust themselves, perhaps lean into the backrest, John simply sits at the ready, feet on the floor, back straight. The only movement is that which is near involuntary: his chest rising and falling with breath, eyes blinking from time to time.

John Wick is frozen in time, staring at him. In Viggo’s office, in the museum, even in the car, Santino could have imagined the attraction between them, but here lit in comfortable and appropriate lighting, in the sea of sheep that chat around them, Santino still feels the electric charge sparking the air between them.

He wants to push. He craves to do it. John is a loaded spring and Santino wants to see him let go any way possible, in _ all _ the ways he’s capable. It’s an animalistic need, the very essence of id, to take something he covets without questioning the danger or repercussions, and it’s that recklessness which allows him not to fear guns or his own death, or indeed, the man sitting across him.

So very often, people see others in ways they want to use them. Viggo sees John as a guard dog. A gun to be pointed safely away from his face. Santino thinks there might be more to the man than that.

He wants to press his lips to Jon’s and see what the man does. Did they need all this farce? Perhaps John wouldn’t have been averse to following Santino to his room and fucking him into the bed.

Instead of proposing something similarly preposterous, Santino asks, “How did you like the exhibit?”

John doesn’t seem to know what to do with the question. Perhaps he’d been expecting something else. He says, “Old paint, swirls and line. I don’t really understand the price.”

Santino chuckles. A metaphor about dogs and paintings comes to mind. “It is all the same to me as well. I am glad we see eye to eye.”

John’s eyebrows twitch, as if he wishes to frown. “Isn’t it your collection?”

“My uncle’s,” Santino corrects. He picks up his glass of wine and drinks. Pleasant. Yes, this was the right choice of restaurant. “I assume I don’t have to explain.”

John nods. “People talk.”

A server comes with the appetizers: Nova Scotia lobster, fresh burrata, basil and eggplant. Simple, yet, Santino enjoys every bite of it.

After they’ve eaten John asks, “Do you just work for Viggo or...”

_ Work for _, Santino thinks. An interesting choice of words.

“Because I’m in Naples most of the year?”

“Because Russians don’t generally go to places like this,” John replies dryly. Is that humor? Santino can’t tell, but he hopes it is.

“Please, don’t compare me to Iosef,” Santino says with disdain. “His bad taste has been a thorn in my eye since he was old enough to dress himself.”

Santino watches, fascinated, as John’s mouth softens and he lets out a soft, barely there, laugh. _ Amazing _, Santino thinks. He’s done that.

Their main course arrives soon after, obscuring Santino’s sight, and when the server is gone John’s smile has retreated behind his beard.

Santino licks his lips. There is rarely a time when he’s liked beards. He prefers himself clean shaven. Now, he thinks about what that beard would feel like against his cheek, over his skin, rubbing his thighs raw.

“You know,” Santino says, “ordering a steak in a seafood restaurant is like going to Italy and only eating hamburgers.”

John shrugs, uncaring. “Sorry,” he says, and he definitely doesn’t sound apologetic. Then he adds, “I like steak.”

_ So he does _, Santino thinks. He sighs, for effect, and says, “If you must.”

He doesn’t mean much by it, which John seems to recognize. Either that, or he doesn’t care for Santino’s opinion. That’s interesting in it’s own way. After all, Santino has only ever been second to Gianna no matter his father.

Claudia D’Antonio had given birth in a small New York hospital not too far away from here. For a year, Santino had lived in New York while his mother defied her family. Massimo had at first wanted Claudia to hand Santino over to Viggo. Massimo had told him this, and added, “You know what my sister said? ‘_ This child is my flesh and blood. He’s mine and noone else’s. He is a D’Antonio. _’”

It’s not often that Massimo gets sentimental. As a rule, those feelings refuse to run in the family. Yet, on that day Santino’s mother, with the help of nonna, managed to convince Massimo to accept Santino. Another four years he’d spent being brought up by Claudia until she’d died. A stray bullet. There had been carnage to pay.

Santino watches as John carves through his stake, and decides to finish up his fusili. There is a particular feeling of dining with John; as if he’s being constantly monitored even when his eyes are averted. He knows vigilance of security guards and this is not it. At least not in its entirety.

Marea serves no desert, but John accepts a night cap in form of two fingers of bourbon. Indeed, American to the bone.

With the plates cleared and nothing in the way, now more than ever, John appears as if he’s waiting for something.

“If there is something you wish to know, I am all ears,” Santino says.

John’s eyes darken for a moment. Then he asks, “Why did you bring me here?”

Santino rises an eyebrow in challenge. He considers his whiskey, then says, “I was curious.”

“About?”

“What you were like. I’ve been hearing the stories about _ Baba Yaga _for a long time.”

John leans back, shoulders drawn. “And?”

It sound harder than any tone of voice he’s used before.

“And I’m still curious. If you _ are _ that creature, then there’s still some humanity left in you yet,” Santino says, reckless till the end. “Do you wish to know how I know that?”

John juts out his chin in question but leans forward to listen intently all the same. His eyes hold Santino, as if he were a butterfly pinned to the board. Santino welcomes it, leaning over the table as well.

“Because you look at me _ like that _,” Santino says in a hushed voice. He sees something shift in John’s face and he chuckles leaning back into his chair.

They finish their drinks quickly. Ares is all too happy to go pick up the car when Santino shoots her a message. He takes care of the bill, and when they step out to the curb, they’re alone.

“I assume you live in the headquarters?” Santino asks.

“No. I have my own place in Brooklyn.” He gives Sainto a pointed look. Santino smirks just in time when Ares arrives with the car.

They climb inside. “Ares, we’re giving Mr. Wick a ride home.”

#### -

Brooklyn isn’t so very far. Late night traffic knows to be an issue, but on a work day, he knows to expect a quick arrival. Ares’ GPS said thirty minutes. However, sitting in the back seat with John somehow stretches that time, taking away the air in the process. Santino feels his fingers twitching. He has never been a patient man.

Glancing up at the rearview mirror, Santino notices how John’s knees almost rub against the co-driver seat and the faint frown lines on Ares’ forehead. His fingers drum against his thigh. Santino turns to look at John and manages to marvel at his profile before the man returns his gaze.

With a sharp inhale, Santino feels the spark of attraction burst into a flame. John is not a classically handsome man nor is he particularly beautiful but he’s striking and particular in his own way. Santino wants to do nothing more than to ruin him if only for a little bit.

The urge to do something overwhelms him.

There are a handful of things Santino is not proud of. Gianna, being older than him, has been witness to most of them. Ares, on the other hand, has always been a quiet and resigned participant to his stupidity. Yet, crawling over to John and sitting astride him in the car, Santino’s only regret is that they don’t have more leg space and a partition.

John’s hands hesitate, then clamp around his waist, bringing him closer. He’s looking up at him, and Santino cannot help but be amused by the pinch of his eyebrows.

He touches the lapels of John’s jacket then lets his fingers slip under it, grazing the collar of his pressed white shirt and trailing down to his chest. There, he can feel the quick rhythm of John’s heart.

For a moment, Santino looks into John’s eyes, just to be sure, then he finally does what he’d been wanting to do all day -- he kisses him.

John startles, but the shock is brief because Santino feels his rough hand pressing against his neck, thumb digging right under his jaw. His hand, just like his breath, is warm.

The kiss turns from brief, experimental, to demanding the moment John seems to make up his mind. He keeps Santino’s head right where he wants it and Santino opens up for him and his tongue, until he’s being kissed breathless.

John’s other hand slips under Santino’s jacket, tracing warm lines on his back, while Santino feels the sturdiness of his muscled chest and firm belly.

They barely break for air. They barely breathe at all. It doesn’t seem to matter. It’s not important. What they need, what Santino needs, is to feel the man underneath him. He pushes a hand into his hair and tugs. John groans into the kiss, but doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it; his hand smooths down his shirt, across the small of Santino’s back, before it rests on his ass.

Santino’s hips jerk, smug all the while, that John cannot help but touch. This is what he wanted: to offer stimuli and measure reactions.

Santino’s hard, uncomfortable where he presses against the zipper of his suit. When John squeezes his ass, he rolls his hips. _ Perhaps it doesn’t matter that they’re in a car _, Santino thinks disgointedly, feeling tipsy on nothing but the chemistry between them and the promise of sex. Ares probably won’t mind. Ares has seen worse. On the next kiss Santino bites, sliding his hand lower to feel John’s cock twitching under his fingers.

Ares slams on the break and shuts off the engine. They’ve arrived at John’s house.

It takes Santino a moment to will himself to break the kiss, then another to catch his breath. He’s pressed up against John completely, and it’s far more comfortable than he’d thought it could ever be. He noses across John’s jaw, hand still very much tracing the outline of John’s still-hard cock, reveling in the way John’s thighs are ticking open the more his cock twitches.

“Time to go,” Santinto breathes, still fascinated by John’s reactions.

John blinks a couple of times, gaze focusing, then clears his throat. “You’ll need to get off.”

Santino huffs a laugh and sits back. John wipes a hand over his face, takes a breath as if he’s just made up his mind this is real, and pushes the doors open. Santino lingers only to tell Ares to _ stay _, before following him outside.

John’s house is an inconspicuous brownstone bordered by two others of the same built, the bricks painted the same red color. Santino doesn’t inspect the doors much except when he’s pressed into them once they’re inside and the groves are digging into his back. But then John’s kissing him, his hands skidding down Santino’s flanks, and it becomes unimportant.

Jon presses a thigh between Santino’s, letting him rub himself over them. Santino smirks, breaking the kiss, and says, “Are you not even going to offer me a drink, John?”

“Doesn’t seem you need one,” John retorts, mouth moving over Santino’s neck, teeth against his pulse.

Santino freezes, feeling a thrill chase itself through his system, and laughs. His hand sneaks between them to press into John’s belly, then against his cock. John shivers. They need to move away from the door.

“Come on,” Santino murmurs, “show me your bed.”

John lingers only for a moment before he pulls away to switch on the lights. Santino catches a glimpse of a study on the right, a kitchen all the way down the hall, but more importantly, of stairs that lead up to the second floor.

The heat seems worse the longer John stays distant. They strip off their coats and hang them up on the coat hanger before Santino takes the chance to curl his hand around John’s tie, pulling him into another kiss. They stumble back, and Santino laughs.

“Watch the stairs,” John warns, this time clearly exasperated.

Santino chuckles against his shoulder, giddy.

“Maybe you should carry me up then?” he suggests.

“Take off your shoes,” John retorts, ignoring his request. He steps back and Santino tugs on the tie, before he releases it.

Amused by John, Santino kicks off his oxford’s and slips out of his jacket, hanging it on the banister as he follows Jon upstairs.

It really would do nobody any good to slip and fall down the stairs, which is why Santino keeps his hands to himself until they’re at the top and John’s crowding him into the wall, hands groping, touching everywhere.

He’s too preoccupied with pushing the jacket off John’s shoulders to note which of the three rooms they end up going into. The only thing he knows is that they walk past a doorway, Santino loses his belt, John turns on a lamp that floods the room with a soft orange hue, and their shirts are halfway undone, ties somewhere on the floor.

The back of John’s legs hits the bed so he sits down. Santino follows him, straddling him once again. Despite the haste, there’s a particular pleasure in taking in the details. After all, there’s only one John Wick and Santino wants to remember how heated his skin feels when he undoes the last few buttons on his collar and pushes the shirt off his shoulders.

Scars litter John’s chest and arms while tattoos crown each shoulder. Intriguing. Santino had not taken John as a particularly religious man. There must be a story. All stories are written on the flesh of the living.

Santino kisses John again because each kiss tastes like bourbon and the sea air whenever Santino went tombstoning, despite jagged rocks waiting at the bottom, hidden by the bright adriatic sea. Santino has always been an adrenaline junkie. He’s most alive when the borders of fear and ecstasy mix. That’s how it feels to kiss John.

Warm hands roam under Santino’s shirt that has snagged on the wrist cuffs. They’re rough and calloused, as they should be. Santino wants to feel those fingers inside him. However, more pressingly, he wants to see John coming undone.

Santino slides his hands lower to undo the belt and zipper holding John’s pants together. He dips his hand inside John’s underwear and finally curls it around his hard, warm and very wet cock.

John’s breath shudders and Santino feels his own mouth watering. He tugs at John’s lip, teases with his tongue until John’s growling. Satisfied, Santino slips from John’s lap down onto the floor.

It’s satisfying to hear how John sucks in a sharp breath.

“You don’t have to--”

“I know.”

Santino rubs his hand up the inseam of John’s pants, his other working along John’s length. Precum beads at the top generously, easing the way. Santino leans in, and just manages to look up and catch a sight of John’s eyes before licking it away.

He keeps doing it, just to watch John twitch, sucking at the tip and passing his tongue over it. Then he opens his mouth and takes him in.

Santino likes sucking cock. He likes getting his cock sucked. Most of all he likes to surprise and tease. Now, he likes how heavy it feels on his tongue, the way John’s breath stutters again, and the way he curls his hand around the back of Santino’s neck.

Santino cannot take everything immediately so his hand continues pumping him. His cock is brushing against Santino’s palette when Santino has to stop. He tries to swallow a couple of times, too much spit and precome in his mouth, and he feels the muscle underneath his hand that rests on John’s thigh spasming.

_ John has a nice cock _, Santino thinks as he starts sucking it in earnest. He also seems to have bedroom manners because he doesn’t immediately tug Santino forward to chasing his own pleasure but lets Santino find his pace, his other hand curling around his own knee. There are sounds muffled in his throat that in the quietness of the room manage to reach Santino and send shivers down his spine.

John can see it when Santino goes for his his own fly and takes himself in hand. Santino does not hide his pleasures. He wants John to see _ everything _.

Santino bobs his head, each time taking John a little bit further into his throat until he doesn’t have to use his hand anymore and he’s fighting down his gag reflex as it hits the back of his throat. He feels John’s thighs trembling, hears the moan in his throat, and feels satisfaction curling around his spine.

Santino pulls back, panting, and rests his face against John’s thigh. John’s eyes are dark, bright, lust-filled. John touches his face, and Santino makes it a point to suck in the thumb that rest against his mouth.

“Fuck my mouth,” Santino says.

Credit to him, John isn’t surprised. He only swallows and says, “Okay.”

Hesitation is not in John Wick. Santino opens up for John and John keeps a sturdy hold on the back of Santino’s neck until he’s quite literally choking on John’s dick. Santino can feel the stretch of his lips, the way his throat spasms as he tries desperately to swallow, his eyes burning. Then John lets him pull back, only to repeat it again, over and over again until John’s fucking his throat.

Santino cannot stop striping his own cock, desperate for release. John’s moaning now, liberally, his feet twitching, his breathing harder and it’s the best fuel for his desire. Santino swallows around him, feeling smug when John’s hand turns to iron on the back of his neck.

There’s tears. There’s always tears. Santino speeds up his hand around himself, groaning, his hips twitching.

“Santino,” John says, a warning in his voice.

Heat curls around Santino completely, settling in his gut. He’s ready to choke on the come, he knows John is so close, he can feel it in his spine, and he bows his head happy to experience it this way. But John pulls him off his cock and instead, ends up stripping his face with it. Santino has to close his eyes unless something unfortunate were to happen, and when it’s over he looks up at John, feeling his own cock pulsing in his hand.

John’s face has gained a faint pink quality, his eyes intense, glazed with pleasure. Santino wipes his mouth and face with a corner of his shirt. Santino’s voice is hoarse when he says, “You should have just come down my throat.”

That seems to bring John back. He descends upon him, kissing him even though he’s _ just _had his cock in his mouth, hoisting him up on his legs, then on the bed.

John helps him kick off his pants and suddenly they’re desperate, trying to touch every part of each other. John slips between his legs, the weight smothering and wonderful. Yes, this is what Santino wanted.

John takes Santino in his hand and slips lower, keen on giving back. Santino laughs as John’s beard scratches his belly, his thighs, delighted that it feels just as he’d imagined. He rolls his hips, and huffs out a soft laugh when John grumbles and pins them down.

He can’t stop looking at John, both at the way he fits between Santino’s legs and the way his hair is still infuriatingly kempt. Santino pushes a hand through it even as John starts pumping his cock, mouth around his head.

Santino groans, heels digging into the sheets.

He’s not fucking John’s throat but it doesn’t matter. Santino is tipsy on satisfaction, and the knowledge that he’s doing this with John. He uses the chance to mess up his hair before he spills, pleasure washing over him in a comfortable luxurious stretch.

John swallows, pulls away, and breathes against Santino’s thigh.

For a while Santino looks at the ceiling, stretched out on John’s bed, catching his breath. Finally, John lifts himself off of Santino and pushes to his feet. He still has his pants on. John tucks himself away then disappears into the en-suite.

Santino hears the water running. Well, he did just have Santino’s come in his mouth.

The peeling paint isn’t exactly as interesting as before, now that Santino’s come down from his high. He turns on his belly and goes in search of supplies. The nightstand, unfortunately, provides only a flask.

Santino situates himself against the headboard, throws a sheet over himself because it’s getting cold, and takes a swig. Bourbon. Definitely John’s then.

Santino considers his options then asks, “Think you can get hard again?”

“Are you always such an asshole?” John retorts, exiting the bathroom in his boxers, with lube and condoms in hand. Santino smirks.

“I was only being considerate,” Santino explains, feeling his cock twitch when John drops the supplies onto the bed, then wraps a hand around his ankle and tugs him down. The bourbon sloshes and Santino laughs.

John takes the flask from his hand, caps it, then lays over him and kisses him. Santino hums into it, already feeling pleasure stir in his belly once again. He wraps his hands around John’s back, knees lifting around his hips.

Softly, they begin rocking together, their cocks pressing into warm flesh until they’re both hard again. Santino gets a hand around himself and John, his other sliding lower, down his flank, and slipping under John’s underwear to grip his ass.

The kiss breaks, both of them breathing too hard. John’s lips go to Santino’s jaw, travel down his neck until they lay just over Santino’s pulse. Amused, Santino cocks his head to the side, exposing it further for John to abuse, which seems only to make the man pull away to look at him.

“Prep?” he asks.

“Please.”

Santino wonders if John is going to take things slow, be far too careful, or decide to get it over with as quickly as he can. As it turns out neither. He sits back, asks, “Two?” Santino agrees and John opens a condom, sticks two fingers into it, and pushes them inside Santino.

There’s something tight in John’s expression, Santino notes, even as he spreads his legs so John’s work is easier. John grabs one of his thighs, keeping it in place.

He has to breathe, relax, even though he’s made sure to prepare and clean himself just for tonight. It always takes adjusting, but Santino likes this too -- the bite just before his muscles melt after they get used to the intrusion.

John moves slowly, then when he’s sure Santino’s gotten used to it, starts spreading him. Jon is, as it turns out, as thorough with prep as he is with his job. Santino feels his cock swelling to discomfort, and starts rocking back. Then there are three fingers and John’s sitting up, leaning over him, kissing him all over again, and Santino feels his thighs twitching in a telling sort of way.

John’s fingers skim over his prostate, then seem to find it, press it, and Santino’s moaning into the kiss, his hips twitching, legs suddenly stiff and useless. Electricity runs up his spine each time John’s fingers rub inside him like that, and he has to pull away, has to get a hand around his own cock because _ fuck _that feels good.

“John,” he says, and it seems the man already knows because he shifts, and his fingers are hitting just the right spot, rubbing it in more incessant circles, touch turning fimer until Santino’s legs are shaking.

“Oh-- oh _ belissimo _ John, just- right-- fuck.” Santino’s voice cracks over the last syllable, and he laughs at the sheer absurdity of it. He hits John with his knee, as if he were a horse, and says, “Come on get inside me. Or should I write a-- _ merde _ \-- an official request?”

Only for that, Santino is pretty sure, John prolongues the prep for another few minutes, focusing on Santino’s prostate until his cock is leaking on his belly, and his humor has given way to pleasure and whines that leave his mouth unbidden.

“I’ll come John-- John I’m going to come on your-- fuck_ fuck _fuck.”

_ He could _, Santino thinks body aching for another orgasm. Santino jabs John much more sharply.

John huffs, but finally pulls back. Santino catches his breath while John gets a condom on his cock and lubes himself up, though every breath feels too small. His chest is constricting, his lungs aflame.

“I’ve decided,” Santino says, sitting up, “that I’m going to ride you after all.”

“You’ve just decided,” John repeats, sounding amused.

“An issue?” Santino asks, rising an eyebrow.

John shakes his head, seemingly still amused. He places a pillow against the headboard, sits down with his back against it, and Santino crawls into his lap. He’s a little winded for kissing. Instead, he rubs John’s cock until John says, “Get on with it.”

Santino huffs out a laugh. Good thing they’ve been using liberal amounts of lube. Santino wipes his hands against the sheets then places them over John’s shoulders; he will be using them as a purchase.

Santino is aware of the fact that there’s a reason why people usually go slow when it comes to sex. But as impatient as he is, he works his way down the shaft quickly, until John is completely inside him, and Santino can feel his cock spreading him and twitching each time he squeezes down.

John’s hands that have been bracketing his hips now squeeze, two lead weights.

When he’s sure he’s alright, Santino lifts himself up and slams down. Eager to return to the pleasure he’d felt only minutes prior, he rolls his hips a few times before he really leans forward and starts fucking himself on John’s cock.

There’s a little shocked gasp against his clavicle before John’s looking up, looking at him, mouth open and red and too inviting. Santino feels ill little shivers go down his spine. He wanted to be the center of John’s attention and now that he has it, he feels both full and starving for more.

The air goes from warm to scorching. Santino coils a hand in John’s hair and tugs, the other daring to touch his chin, trail down his throat to his chest that has grown a suggestive pink color of exertion. John’s hands on his hips have gone rock solid, their only intention to help Santino bounce up and down.

“You look good like this,” Santino murmurs. He likes looking at Jon from above. That way he can watch his lashes fluttering when he leans down, his mouth parting, chin tilting forward just a millimeter, but a millimeter that’s telling. Santino ghosts his lips over John’s before he gives the game up and descends.

In some ideal world, the kiss would be sweet and a little slow, perhaps even testing. But that world is not which either of them occupy. Instead, the kiss is hard and filled with the crackling electricity of attraction that has snapped them together.

All Santino can hear are their breaths, mingled together, the moans and grunts that tells Santino just how much both of them are enjoying this, and the slap of skin on skin of fast hard sex. There’s little to do than enjoy it, and Santino does. He adores this feeling of getting filled up, of getting what he wants, of the pleasure that’s just right. Tempered.

It tips, as it should, into fervor and the desperate need for release. Santino wonders if he should, then he does it anyways. “Come on John,” he says, pushing the man against the headboard. “Can’t you fuck me harder?”

Santino sees the flash in his eyes a moment before he’s being thrown onto the bed and John’s climbing over him, gripping his thighs. A terrified chill starts at his shoulders, but by the time it reaches the small of his back it turns into a delicious curling attraction making his cock leak on his belly.

John grabs him behind his knees and pushes forward, folding Santino in two. There’s little preamble, but Santino is out of breath and out of care to protest. John fucks into him, cock spreading him all over again, and it’s good, it’s just right, it’s amazing. A laugh rips from his throat that gets lost in a moan because Santino has to claw at the sheets.

John fucks him hard. The sound of skin against skin fills the air once again, but this way Santino can feel exactly how John’s hips collide with his, how strong his grip is, and with how much fervor he drives within Santino’s body. John’s thumbs dig bruises into his skin, as Santino’s thighs starting to tremble. Perspiration beads his forehead and slides down John’s chest. It’s mesmerizing to watch John’s muscles bunching up, his hip bones prominent, his cock disappearing within his body.

Sanitno trembles with it, with the intensity, with need for release, with an ever higher need to continue watching this, whatever it is, be it only a provoked reaction or showmanship. John’s frowning, but it doesn’t matter. Santino feels his pleasure between his legs, feels it on his lips which tingle for his teeth and mouth, feels it when John grunts, lets Santino’s legs drop so he can stretch over him to kiss him again.

The angle shifts and Santino’s suddenly seeing spots, John’s cock nudging against his prostate. Nails find John’s back and dig.

“There don’t-- don’t move for the love of--”

John silences him with a kiss, but doesn’t shift the angle, keeps fucking him just right, just there. It’s a merciless sort of angle that has Santino’s toes curling. In moments he’s spilling between them, cock rubbing against John’s belly.

Santino can feel a hand above his head, bracketing him in while the other bruises his waist as John chokes out a moan, fucking him until Santino’s completely spent and trembling. Pleasure mixes with pain and Santino bites John’s shoulder, even as his hands grip his ass and tell him to go faster. The pain is the point. Santino likes this too, likes it a little too much for his usual fucks to do it right.

He doesn’t know how long John keeps fucking him just right becuase his vision blurs, and the pleasure keeps him high. He feels John’s hips stuttering for the first time that night, and then he’s pushing into him, pressing so deep Santino swears he can feel him in his throat. Santino’s thrilled with how terrible the thought is. Then John stills, forehead pressed to the side of Santino’s face, and for one singular moment Santino realizes he has a hundred kilos of a killer on top of him.

John doesn’t collapse, as many do. He lingers, only for a handful of moments, before sitting back and pulling away. He disposes of the condom and Santino rolls to the other end of the bed to let him lie down.

Santino’s body cools slowly, especially because he curls into John’s side, interested in nothing else than leaving little marks in his skin.

However, eventually, reality filters in and Santino realizes he’s cold. So he stretches on the bed and stands. ”I’m claiming your shower.”

“Hot water’s on the left,” John informs him.

Santino picks up his discarded clothes and heads for the en-suite. He grimaces when he sees how small it is and how shitty it looks. Still, it cleans him up all the same. He buttons up his rumpled shirt, finds his underwear and pants, and dresses. His tie is a goner, so he stuffs it inside his pocket and exits.

When Santino turns to look at John he’s acquired underwear and his clothes have disappeared from the floor. Smug, relaxed, riding the high of two splendid orgasms, he doesn’t think twice before he’s walking over and leaning one knee on the bed, so he can kiss John once again.

When he pulls back it’s only for an inch.

“Tonight was nice, no?” Santino asks.

Santino wishes John’s face showed more of what he’s thinking. But in the space where a frown, a tick of an eyebrow, even a smile would have lied, Santino can only count the seconds until his reply to know he’s somehow caught him off guard.

“Yeah,” he finally replies.

“We should do it again sometime,” Santino says against his lips. They just brush together, a lingering sensation. He waits to see what John will do.

He only replies with, “I’d like that.”

Satisfied, Santino stands upright. “Well then. I’ll be seeing you around John. _ Buonasera _.”

For a moment, John looks at Santino, and his eyebrows lower. Santino does not yet know what it means, but it’s followed with a sigh.

“Santino,” John nods.

He doesn’t offer to walk him out which is all the same. Santino picks up his jacket from the banister, slips into his shoes, and when he slides into the backseat of his car, he can’t help the grin that crowns his face.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the chapters are already written. I'm just taking time to edit them, and I'll be posting as I finish editing so I think a chapter every three days should be expected. Thanks for reading! Kirill is the lieutenant in John Wick 1 who John ends up killing in the church (via choking post interrogation).

Kirill Sokolov is a severe man, carrying his fifty years like few men carry their twenties. Moscow-born, he followed Viggo to America with little else than a tattoo nestled behind his ear, riding on passports and distant promises of work.

Shoulder to shoulder with Abram and a handful of men from their gang, he watched Viggo’s rise and rose with him. As the head of security, there is little that happens outside his watchful gaze. He coordinates attacks, just as he’s coordinated efforts against the Serbians, and now, he stands in Viggo’s office, reporting success. It may have taken three days to find their operation but that is no detriment. Santino had counted on a week.

“They will retaliate,” Viggo tells Santino.

“If they do, we escalate. We can keep it up, they can’t. Their size constricts them,” Santino replies. He feels mildly absurd what with folders covering the table in front of him, the couch, and the better part of his lap.

Kirill’s sharp eyes focus on Santino. Though he’s known Santino since he was a child, they only started speaking about seven years ago, when Santino worked out the Sinaloa tunnel negotiations after John made his usual mess.

Viggo sighs and looks at his friend. “One son wants to kill me, the other wants to bankrupt me.”

“Sir,” Kirill says, “It may not come to war. No lives were lost on either side.”

At least the man has more sense than other lieutenants. Unlike most old men, Kirill feels right at home with violence. He’s always quietly supported expansion; Viggo has eaten his fill, but Kirill is still hungry. It’s something for Santino to exploit.

“It will take them a day or two to reorganize, another day to count their losses. Vučić will call,” Santino says, determined.

“And if he doesn’t you will have what you wanted. The expansion,” Viggo says, accusatory. “I am not yet so stupid.”

“Either way your problem is solved, no?” He stacks the files on the table. “Now, I have other business. Avi has been running the books, but there are some exceptions I need to check on. The fentanyl imports have dropped.”

“By less than one percent,” Viggo counters. “Not unexpected.”

“Not necessarily, considering the legal market has been flooded with opiates.”

“Pah! I should have known you would scratch for every dollar.”

“And with each visit I make you richer,” Santino smiles.

Viggo grumbles in agreement and waves him off. “Go. Kirill will take you.”

Inside the elevator, under Ares’ bold gaze, Santino turns and offers Kirill his hand. “It has been a long time.”

“You kick the nest each time you come,” Kirill notes, but shakes his hand none-the-less.

“I make work for you, I know.” Solving problems, for Santino, usually means expanding Tarasov empire.

“It is why we’re here,” Kirill replies. The elevator pings and they exit.

#### -

Much like the System, families that comprise what others know as Camorra, Bratva has a horizontal rather than a hierarchical structure. It means that, in so many words, if one house were to topple, the other nine would still be standing strong. It’s that distance that has allowed both organizations to survive so long, especially with recent government crackdowns expanding in scope and severity.

An unfortunate side effect of their trade is law enforcement stumbling into a pipe line. When that happens it isn’t a rare occurrence for warehouses, even whole operations, to be stripped and taken to the next nearest bratva. They sit on the tunnels, waiting for the end of the investigation. If they’re found they have to be sealed permanently, otherwise they can be repurposed.

Kirill leads Santino to the docs. The warehouses where they store the fentanyl are secured inside and out, with a rotation of guards, disguised as a shipping company for beauty products. It seems that as of late, the beauty market has become cut throat and Santino has made use of the evolution.

His goal is not to immediately understand the issue with the numbers; it is to be seen. Iosef has never made an attempt to figure out the business side of the family, irate and young as he is, tending to stay far away from Santino in his rat-nest surrounded by his rat-friends.

What was Viggo thinking when he let Iosef run Red Circle, he doesn’t know. For the moment, at least, it is not important. His absence has allowed Santino’s persevering influence. Now, he just needs to jog a little loyalty in Viggo’s men.

Once he’s finished with the warehouses, Kirill drives Ares and Santino back. “Kirill,” Santino says before the man can exit. “Viggo would not say. But if there are any chances that we can push the borders...”

“I will let you know,” Kirill nods.

They change cars and Santino is finally free to do what he wishes: drive to Brooklyn. Ares’ gaze is judgmental but Santino has been ignoring her ever since they’d come to New York.

They park on the curb in front of John’s house, and the man exits a few minutes later, in one of his usual suits, only this time he has a black shirt on instead of white. Variety, it is not.

Santino checks his watch. Right on time as well. He smiles and walks over, meeting Jon halfway across the curb.

“_ Buongiorno _,” Santino says, stepping closer than otherwise required. He’s forced to tilt his head up, if only for a centimeter, but it’s worth it to see Jon inclining his head, nodding.

“Santino,” he says, voice rough and careful, as Santino has learned is his usual.

Unable to help himself, Santino hums, and presses his hand over one of the lapels. He curls his fingers around it, pretending he’s straightening it out. John doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t stop him. He didn’t stop him that night in the car either. Santino’s _ allowed _ to touch him now.

“We have reservations in half an hour,” Santino says as his hand glides down John’s chest. He pockets it and steps back. “I hope you’ve been well.”

“I have,” John agrees. Santino pulls the doors open for him, watches John go inside, then follow by forcing John to scoot to the next seat.

“Hey,” he says to Ares who, as expected, ignores him. He turns to Santino. “Another..._ fancy _ place?”

“I wouldn’t call it fancy,” Santino says, feeling the engine of the car awaken, the wheels cruising smoothly down the pavement.

“And what would you call it?” John asks. He doesn’t have an eyebrow lifted, but he has a pointed look, as if he’s expecting a certain kind of answer.

“Appropriate,” Santino replies.

John sighs through his nose and turns towards the traffic. Santino hopes he’s amused rather than resigned. At least he’s more than monosyllabic like last time.

It is only when they’re seated in the restaurant, looking at the lunch options, does Santino remember to ask, “Why do you ask?”

John looks at him over his menu in question. Santino has picked a French restaurant this time since Gianna had once talked well of the Le Bernardin.

Reiterating, Santino asks, “Do you protest high-end restaurants?”

For a moment John glances to the right and left, then admits, “They’re kind of a security nightmare.”

Santino chuckles. “Do not think about that when you’re with me. I don’t keep Ares around just for her rugged good looks.”

John’s gaze lingers, but he finally retreats, his mouth curving if only slightly. A small victory, perhaps.

“Now, I do recommend the merluza,” Santino says, just in time for the server to arrive.

He watches, in horror, how for the first course John orders lobster, and for the second a filet mignon.

“We are literally, in one of the best seafood restaurants,” Santino says, distressed, but John simply shrugs. Heathen.

Santino pairs scallops with dover sole and a nice white wine, and waves the server away.

“If I keep bringing you to restaurants, will you keep ordering steaks?” Santino asks.

“You were curious about who I am,” John shoots back, this time a reply on the ready.

Certainly, Santino is still curious about the man behind the legend. It seems that most times, the monster is subdued. As much as Santino wants to see Baba Yaga in action, he has to admit that there has to be, at least in part, something to counterbalance it.

“So what, you’re indulging me?”

“Figured you’ll get bored sooner or later,” Jon replies, straight-faced. “I’m just here for the food.”

The wine arrives while Santino looks at John. Were he younger, he would have shouted, stormed off, perhaps accepted the insult. As it is, he takes a sip of the wine finding it, for some reason, quietly hilarious.

“Or perhaps, you’ll get bored quicker, no?” Santino asks, nudging John’s foot with his own under the table.

At once, the crackle of electricity which had subsided now thunders between them. “Bored?” John asks, “No. People usually don’t surprise me. But you did.”

Feeling his ego being stroked, Santino smirks. “How so?”

“Figured I wouldn’t hear from you again,” John admits, not particularly distressed about it. “People get their fill for a night, then move on.”

Santino can see that. In their line of work, in their _ world _, there are people, just like Santino, who are attracted to danger. John is a legend given breath who is economic with his words at best, conservative when it comes to showing his personality, and Santino has not yet seen enough of it to deem John Wick a one-trick pony, and wash his hands of him. In any case, the sex had been amazing.

“I specifically told you otherwise,” Santino points out.

“Yeah. People do that too.”

“It’s their own fault they have poor judgement,” Santino responds. He doesn’t want to be compared. No, he wants all of John’s attention firmly on him.

John’s mouth quirks. He pulls something from his breast pocket, and Santino notes it’s his belt, just before he sets it on the table.

_ The gal _ , Santino thinks, _ and the thought makes him laugh _. Santino covers his mouth with his fingers, leaning back into his chair, just in time for the first course.

He knew there was something about John Wick. Audacity.

“Thought you’d want it back,” John notes.

Santino takes the belt off the table and places it in his coat pocket. “Where was it?”

“Fell down between the rails in front of the kitchen. Saw it when I was getting takeout.”

“What, that night?”

John quirks an eyebrow, as if to say, _ Obviously _.

“Marea has hefty portion sizes,” Santino notes.

“Was hungry,” John shrugs.

The lunch is followed up by dessert. John, surprisingly, picks the dish called apple, while Santino decides he’s in the mood for gelato. He is not disappointed. Neither, it seems, is John despite battling with the absurdity of an actual apple arriving on his plate, cutting through it, and finding out a mouse dessert within.

It’s interesting watching his reactions, small as they may be. Santino notes that he’s left handed, but he uses his fork with the right, that he has European manners when it comes to dining, and his avoidance of red wine.

Perhaps he feels like a guinea pig because of Santino’s staring. It doesn’t matter. By the end of lunch Santino is supposed to go back to his papers and he’s enjoying his reprise.

The day is still nice when they finish and he wants to extend the moment as long as he can. He says, much to Ares’ distress, “Why don’t we stretch our legs a little?”

John looks at Ares then at Santino. “If you like.”

_ Wait by the car. I’ll send a message where you can pick me up, _Santino signs.

Ares’ lips are pressed together in a thin line._ Be careful. _

She climbs back into the car, and Santino sighs and turns to Jon. “I want a coffee.”

“There’s a Dunkin’ two blocks away,” John says dryly.

Santino makes a face the takes a sharp turn north. “I don’t think so.”

He watches the miraculous sight of John’s mouth curling before he huffs out a quick, soft laugh.

Passing Carnegie Hall, they turn into the 58th Street. Near Columbus Circle, John makes Santino halt, and points to a small shop. Unlike the Starbucks littering every square inch, the Argo Tea stands defiant with its white decor.

American is not something Santino prefers, but when he sees John ordering as well, he decides he should at least try it. With to-go cups in hand, they pass to the Holiday Market, and walk alongside the park.

Santino sips the coffee, content. “Do you like Argo’s?”

“Bled on their tiles once,” John answers, nonplussed.

Santino, amused, says, “Should I take that as a raving review?”

“It was late. A girl ending her shift. She let me lie down, brought first aid, patched me up. Steady hands. She was working part-time paying off Med School,” John replies. “Told me not to worry about the blood.”

_ That is _ , Santino thinks, _ perhaps the longest John has spoken to him at once _. He considers the coffee, then his story.

“When was this?”

“Couple of years ago. A bullet missed.”

They pass a Lutheran church. Finishing his coffee, Santino finds a bin, but they still continue north.

“Alright then,” Santino says, the challenge in his voice. “Next time you pick where we go.”

John’s head swivels to him. “You might not like it.”

“Please,” Santino sighs, waving his concern away. “How different can a restaurant possibly be?”

John doesn’t refuse. Instead he asks, “What’s the intrigue?”

“Boring,” Santino replies. “Next question.”

“People aren’t toys for you to play with,” John bites out.

“They can be sometimes. But you are far from a toy I would say.”

“But no far from being toyed with?” John says, sounding resigned again.

Santino smirks. “I doubt people can toy with you, John. I am simply a--”

“Tease,” John growls out.

Santino laughs. He had not thought this chemistry between then was going to be acknowledged so soon, but now that it is, he’s glad to have it with him. They throw words at each other until they reach the Museum of Natural History. John gestures for them to cross the street and Santino finds himself in front of the Hayden Planetarium.

“Do you wish to go inside?” Santino asks, curious about John’s own curiosity.

John looks at him for a long moment, as if weighing out something, then nods.

“Have you never visited as a child?” Santino asks, even as he steps forward, going to the doors. At the admissions desk Santino pays for the tickets.

It’s bizarre. Banal. Children are around them. Yet, he must see what John wishes to find within the museum.

They walk through the halls, inspecting the exhibits. Santino’s never had a real curiosity about exoskeletons and space debris. His world has always revolved around his family. He’s learned what he needed to use in life and it lies in neat sequences of ones and zeroes that form his bank account.

John, for his part, gazes at things solemnly until they find their way to the IMAX theatre.

“Go on your own if you wish to,” Santino tells him. The Museum he can tolerate. This is another thing entirely.

John nods, goes inside, and half an hour later walks out. Santino, in that time, has been texting Gianna.

“Was it nice?” Santino asks, to which Jon shrugs and nods. In the end, awkwardly, he says, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Literally,” Santino replies once they step outside.

John scoffs, more amused than anything. Then, unprompted, he turns to Santino, fists his tie, and kisses him.

A zing rushes through Santino, awakening every thought, want, and need within his body. He opens his mouth, revels in the demand of John’s, and knows he’s wanted.

Yet, when he closes his eyes John pulls back, not allowing the kiss to go further. _ Tease _, Santino thinks.

“I’ll text Ares to bring the car around,” Santino says, hating the way his voice has gone breathy.

John looks at him, amusement creasing his dark eyes. His hand smooth’s down Santino’s tie and he leans in to place a small kiss to the corner of his mouth.

#### -

“You are playing with fire, Santino.” Gianna sounds bored, much to Santino’s annoyance. He didn’t stay up late just for Gianna to be bored.

“I have been known to do that on occasion,” Santino retorts.

It’s always been difficult to find playmates, especially in Naples. Regular people bore Santino, especially when they’re twitchy around security, and his patience runs thin around the time he has to lie about his family or work. Sleeping with people in the System has rarely been fruitful; risk runs too high from blackmail to gossip, and because they know who he is, they end up treating him too softly for his tastes.

Santino’s taken refuge in traveling often, if not out of Italy than at least to Rome. However, he’s never entertained the idea of being with a fixer before John. Most of the D’Antonio ones were disinteresting and, more importantly, keen to talk to Massimo.

An ocean away, John Wick is the safest gamble when it comes to his family, and the most dangerous one when it comes to personal safety. He likes it.

“When you get disappointed after you find out he’s as dull as a brick, don’t complain to me,” Gianna replies, the loveable sister that she is.

Santino doubts there will be anything to disappoint him. John is interesting in that way a bear might be interesting to a person who’s never seen one before. His motivations are difficult to parse out. It’s Santino’s own personal challenge.

“Fine, then I will sing praises,” Santino snaps. “Now, on the topic of cocaine lines--”

The main business Viggo runs is cocaine. The bratva pushes it from Kazakhstan, and while a portion concentrates in Europe, most of it finds its way to America’s coast. Some of it continues further into the country, to the other bratva groups and to the West Coast, but Viggo runs up a good profit cutting it with fentanyl which is readily available thanks to big pharma. The packets are shipped to Abram, who then transports them to vendors who push the product so it finds its way to every street corner and club that’s in Tarasov territory.

Heroine and sex trafficking are the back-burner of the business. Those who can’t afford cocaine can heroine, and Viggo has always been happy to provide. Warm bodies go hand in hand. Whorehouses tend to be hidden beneath clubs, pubs, restaurants, depending on the clientele. There’s always an influx of young Russian women who want a life in America. Getting pulled into prostitution is an old, well-trodden road.

Tricked or not, the Tarasovs don’t have any use for those unwilling to work. However, provided they work well, the women can earn well. They have regular medical checkups, security from the patrons, and after their service, they would be given papers. Should they survive that long.

Santino doesn’t feel particularly compassionate. It may be horrid, exploitative, morally _ wrong _ but so is the rest of their world. They’re rats, nibbling at the feet of the other world which chooses to indulge in the provided services underneath the table where depravity is par for the course. If there’s a demand, there will always be a supply; Santino cannot be faulted for turning a profit.

Before he can finish his conversation with Gianna, his phone vibrates, signaling he has another call. Viggo. Santino says a quick goodbye and calls Viggo back.

Without preamble, Viggo says, “I need you to do something for me.”

Sighing, Santino checks the time. It’s past midnight. “And you can’t do it yourself because--”

“I am an hour away from Manhattan,” Viggo explains, sounding thin on patience. “Your brother made a mess in the Red Circle. I need you to handle it before the police show up.”

Santino’s mood sours. Still, he accepts and gets up from the bed. He’s never the one that likes dressing in a hurry, and this time is no exception. Iosef can wait an extra fifteen minutes.

Ares is downstairs when he gets to the lobby, looking as sharp as she’d been four hours ago when they’d parted. Thankfully, the trip isn’t long. Red Circle is in the heart of the Tasarov territory near Centre Street, so Santino still looks fresh when he steps out in front of security. Handing the keys to one of the men guarding the entrance, Santino considers going through the main doors before changing his mind. Best he isn’t seen too soon.

A familiar guard stands in front of the private entrance. He recognizes Santino, just in time for Santino to remember his name.

“Good evening, Mr. D’Antonio,” Francis says, opening the doors for him.

“To you as well,” Santino replies and slips inside.

The private entrance has one distinct advantage: no blaring music in his ears. It leads him past the boiler rooms, up to the lockers where most men shower before and after being provided services from the variety of women that work there.

Kirill meets him in the hallway that separates the baths from the stairs which lead up to the club.

“We put him up in one of the private rooms to sober up,” Kirill tells him, not trying very hard to disguise his disgust.

“What did he do?”

“Got high. Drunk. Hit a girl. She almost split her head open on a table.” Kirill sighs. “She’s in another room getting stitches.”

Santino presses his lips together. He will need to do damage control.

“We had some..._ guests _ present. They saw,” Kirill says as he walks him to the private rooms. Usually occupied by clientele, most doors are closed and soundproof. Kirill indicates to the doors farthest from the exit.

Santino walks inside and stops just in front of the bed where Iosef is sprawled out.

There is one golden rule when dealing narcotics applied across the board from the manufacturers to distributors: never get high off your own product. It’s the first lesson he was taught and it has stuck with him since he saw exactly what narcotics did to people. Santino deals in death and misery, but never his own.

It seems that Iosef never got that message. Wrapped in stained pants and an even worse shirt, someone had been kind enough to force the jacket off of him, roll him on his side so as not to choke, and give him a metal bucket which now reeks of bile and vomit.

Santino’s lip curls. It would be easier to help along Iosef’s self-destructive tendencies and just let him O.D. than dealing with him and his messes. The thought it tangent. He knows what he would have done were he alone with Iosef; nature rarely changes in those such as him, which might just as well be the reason why Kirill still stands guard.

“Iosef,” Santino calls.

The man’s cloudy eyes swivel towards him and he grins. “Santino,” he sings and laughs. “Hey, you said you’d never come here!”

Santino did. To say he has a distaste for the Red Circle is to say too little. If he were to write a list of shortcomings, he would start with the fact that it’s a nightclub and end with the fact that he doesn’t need to pay for services to get what he wants. There’s rarely anyone who can satiate his needs, and he does not need attempts made by women chained by circumstances and connected with the business.

Santino smiles, angry. He sits gingerly on the bed and turns to look at Iosef.

“Having a good night?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Iosef sighs.

Santino looks towards the doors, now closed, where both Ares and Kirill stand. He would have liked privacy for this, but it doesn’t matter. Perhaps shaming Iosef is the quickest way of dealing with the issue.

“What did you take?” Santino asks.

Iosef laughs, and tries to shrug. “Fenta...fentanyl? Coke.”

Santino sighs and turns back to Kirill. “Tell one of the guards to fetch some naloxone. He’s useless until he sobers up.”

Santino stands and pushes past the man, Ares trailing behind him. Only one level above the private rooms is the doctor’s office. Santino knocks softly on the doors then slips inside.

The girl’s wrapped in a blanket, the doctor still with her. Her hair is clumped with blood and she appears as if she’s been crying.

Santino’s grateful now that he’d insisted on having emergency services installed in the Red Circle with doctors on call. It’s best for the girls that work there when it comes to regular testing, for Viggo’s discretion, and for incidents such as these.

The girl’s dark eyes swivel towards him. She looks pitiful on the exam bed, thin ankles sticking out, feet bare. Someone should find her shoes.

“Good evening,” Santino says, by the doors. “May I come in?”

The girl looks up at him, shaky. She shrugs. The doctor tries to leave, but Santino waves his hand. Finding a chair, he pushes it in front of the girl and sits so he is not towering over her but sitting beneath her.

“My name is Santino,” he says, “What is yours?”

“Maria,” she replies. She looks uncertain, then she looks angry before reverting it all back to fear.

“Maria,” Santino repeats. He offers his hand and she shakes it.

“I want you to know that you will be alright. I already see the doctor’s taking good care of you. Thank you for letting us help you instead of going to the emergency services.”

“Not exactly on the best healthcare plan,” she says, lip trying to tug up into a brief smile. Santino, in turn, smiles his most charming one.

“I want to apologize on behalf of my brother. I will personally see that you are well taken care of and compensated for his idiocy. I am _ deeply _sorry.”

He stays talking with Maria and reassuring her for another ten minutes, before he has to extricate himself from the situation. Back in the room with Iosef, the man looks far more sober and far more angry when he spots Santino.

“Ah, your limited faculties have returned,” Santino says as he makes his way to sit on the bed again, only now Iosef tenses, knowing he should feel uncomfortable.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he slurs. Santino hopes he’s inducing the tail-ends of a bad trip.

“Father sent me to clean up your mess since you’re, it seems, an invalid.”

Iosef makes a face and turns away from him with a bitten out, “Fuck off.”

Done with playing games, Santino grabs Iosef by the chin, forcing him to turn back around and lay onto his back. Iosef starts like a wild animal, his hand flying in the air which Santino catches and squeezes around the wrist, bringing it down to press hard on his chest.

“Listen to me you little fuck,” he hisses through his teeth, shaking him. “Tonight, your idiocy has cost us thousands in reparations. And the customers? Do you know what they’ll say? Viggo Tarasov’s son is a little _ shit _ who doesn’t know how to behave.”

Iosef struggles against him, brushing his hand away. “So fucking what? This is New York. More people will come.”

Santino chuckles and takes great pleasure in slapping Iosef. His hand goes to his neck, before the man can retaliate, and at once, Iosef’s eyes are wide open, realizing just what kind of a position he’s in. Santino can feel it when he tries to swallow.

“You’re a fucking embarrassment,” Santino shakes his head, huffing out a laugh. His expression hardens the next moment when he says, “Not to mention your little problem. Where _ did _ you get the fentanyl you’ve been so liberal with, huh Iosef?”

Iosef looks at him, milky eyes turning guilty.

“Perhaps,” he says louder, “we should talk with his friends. Victor, Gregori, whatever other piece of shit you like spending time with.”

“It’s...it’s not what you think,” Iosef tries.

“Iosef,” Santino intones, making it sound as patronizing as he can. “Save your excuses for Viggo. He will want to talk once he gets back. Now, clean your shit up and get yourself home.”

Outside of the room, Santino tasks two guards to wait on Iosef and deliver him back to the hotel.

“Take the girl to the clinic,” Santino says to Kirill. In one of the more smart moves, Viggo had coopted a small private hospital for family use. “Don’t let her leave until she signs the NDAs. She might want to say something to law enforcement. I’ll bring more papers in the morning.”

Kirill agrees. “I’ll let Viggo know the situation is handled.”

“Make sure to thoroughly question his friends. Should you need anything further, call,” Santino replies, in lieu of goodbye.

#### -

The punch is muffled by the fabric so the loudest sound in the room is Iosef’s sharp breath and the thud of his glass hitting the floor. It rolls in a circle, spilling the dregs of water and zantac on the floor. Thankfully, Iosef doesn’t vomit.

Viggo throws a rug at him and orders, “Clean that up.”

Despite being curled in on himself, hands and feet spasming, he does as his father bids him. Santino sits at one of the barstools, leaning his elbow on the bar and his head on his hand. As punishments go, Santino has seen worse. Still, he sees Avi flinching.

“I should go,” the man says, nervous. Santino wonders how he’s survived so long is a world full of violence when he’s so clearly allergic to it.

Viggo glances at Avi and shakes his head. No. This is a public shaming, nothing more nothing less. Iosef needs to learn.

“Stealing from me?” he says turning to Iosef. “Stealing from _ us _?”

Iosef mumbles something, scrambling for an excuse, but Viggo is as deaf to it as Santino had been.

“I should have let them take you to jail. A few nights there, you might get you brain working,” Iosef shouts. The slap. That echoes.

Santino sighs. It has always been this way but Santino never gets tired of hearing Iosef’s pitiful noises. Victor and Gregori had been quick to talk when Kirill had pressed them. They’ve been taking a little fentanyl here, a little there, selling for a quick buck and to get high.

Perhaps Santino should propose Viggo send Iosef to get clean. He’s no good to anyone as a junkie. That way he will be taken off the board, one less disturbance to Santino’s plans.

Viggo’s phone rings, ruining the fun far too quickly. Where he’d been slouching, now his father stands straight, shoulders pushed back, at attention. He turns to Santino, eyes serious and electrically blue.

#### -

On the corner of 15th street, just across a late-night dinner, is the church of St. Francis Xavier -- one of Viggo’s oldest properties. Sandwiched between two apartment houses and a spitting distance from the Bowery King’s empire, currently the most neutral ground on Manhattan, it’s the ideal place to hold these kind of negotiations.

Santino sits in the front pew, looking at the altar above which the fresco of Jesus gazes at them, surrounded by his apostles. As with most art, Santino finds little meaning and even less comfort in the swirl of lines and color.

By the doors stand two guards. More sit in every third pew. One is tucked away in each corner. Kirill is surveying the entrance and exits. Ares stands in front of Santino, by the altar. Her hands twitch, signaling Santino that their guests have arrived.

The inside doors of the church swing open and Santino turns. Nikola Vučić is a hard man with dead fish-eyes, who stands, for a moment, at the entrance, crosses himself thrice, and then proceeds inside. His guards fill the room, making it stifling and reminiscent of mass. In Naples, Santino had to attend every Sunday.

Standing, Santino shakes the man’s hand. “Mr. Vučić.”

“Santino D’Antonio,” the man acknowledges. “I did not think it I would be meeting with you.”

“Please,” Santino says, motioning for the man to sit.

Once, Nikola Vučić had been a prominent boxer in ex-Yugoslavia. Escaping the regime early, just before war ignited between Serbia and Croatia, had set him up in prime position to build his own little empire when the refugees and illegal immigrants started shoring up.

Even in his sixties, he has a full head of grey hair and a face almost free of wrinkles. Only his prominent forehead is crisscrossed, an old injury, and one of his eyes has been taken by diabetes, now cloudy and blue. Despite his illness, he’s managed to conglomerate all of the little Serbian clans and rule them.

His English, despite all these years, is still heavily accented.

“Viggo has been rather disappointed with how things turned out. We have been good to each other, is it not?”

“And your father also could have come and told me this himself,” Vučić replies with a nasty glint in his eye. “I am old and getting older listening to you. Now say what it is you wish.”

“I think matters are fairly simple. If you continue aggression in our territories we’ll escalate, and you know that bratva can sustain a lengthy war without endangering business,” Santino says, folding his arms.

“Is that what Viggo wants? War?”

Santino smiles. “I suggested that it would be easier absorbing your clans.” He sees all the men tensing, but Santino pushes onward. “However, instead, Viggo sent me here to talk with you. Viggo’s never unfair towards his friends. He wants to make peace.”

Vučić stares at him and once Santino doesn’t speak further he chuckles. “Peace? You stole from us.”

“One of the girls was wounded. Repairs have been _ very _ costly. We only took enough to patch up.”

Vučić considers this. He harrumphs and says, “An eye for an eye is it? So what is it that you want now?”

“I’m more curious about the reason. Furthermore, some of your kids have been harassing our girls. Selling cocaine, _ badly cut _ cocaine, on our turf.” Santino opens the folder that had been in his hands and shows Vučić the pictures. “This is not the first time.”

“They’re boys. Beat them and send them home to sleep it off,” Vučić replies gruffly. How truly Serbian.

“Mr. Vučić, you are dealing in counterfeits and textile. I don’t imagine you’ve been looking to expand your network into cocaine when you don’t even have a pipeline,” Santino replies. “The cocaine they’ve been selling isn’t yours. So whose is it?”

Vučić looks at him for a long moment, than stands. “I am no idiot, Mr. _ D’Antonio _.”

“No, Mr. Vučić. You would only be a fool if you walked out of this church and give the bratva a reason to raze your operation to the ground then salt the earth for good measure.”

Santino feels the tension in the room, is at the point of snapping. He watches Vučić’s reaction. His lips thin, and his forehead creases even further.

“You really are here representing your father, a?” the man says finally. He does not sit, but he doesn’t walk away.

“Of course. We understand that your are a very old player in this game, Mr. Vučić. If you moved against the bratva it would have been with only with a certain kind of guarantee. I am here to make everybody happy.”

The man grumbles something, then says, “Peh!” He waved his hand yet sits down again. “Good then. Since we’re already talking...”

#### -

The meeting runs late, much to Santino’s annoyance. However, by the end, he has found a solution to his smaller problem. Vučić, indeed, is not a stupid man. The Morcone’s had promised him a cut after taking over Tarasov territory. Usually, such a thing would not have lured him, except it seems that he’d been desperate. Bad return investments, safes threatening to go dry.

Santino proposed another meeting, this time with lawyers, so they could conclude their business. They’d shook on it. Vučić agreed to come to the hotel later that week, to cut a deal.

Santino calls Viggo and reports.

“So the Camorra are serious,” Viggo says, sounding particularly cross. “They have never moved against the bratva before.”

“Greed father, as I’ve been told, is a sin,” Santino says, glancing at his rolex. If he doesn’t leave soon he’ll be late.

Kirill approaches, telling him he’ll be moving the team out. Santino nods approval. He likes the man. Subtle, serious, professional. No wonder he’s been successful within the organisation.

Santino stares at the depiction of crucified Christ. No new revelations come to him today, just like no heavenly voice has touched his mind any other Sunday he spent in mass, trying desperately to stay awake.

“Now that I’m in town I have business to finish with the museum. So I will be late.”

“Take guards with you Santino. I do not like this.”

“Ares is more than capable of protecting me,” he says, standing, and ends the call. With the church empty, his voice echoes.

As victories go, this one is small but vital. With no more distractions, he can now focus on the Morcones.

Instead of heading to the MET, Ares takes him down to Brooklyn, where she turns into the Mary Pinkett Avenue. Santino hops out on the corner of President St., jogs across the traffic, and spots John just ahead.

This time he does not hesitate. When John spots him, Santino smiles and walks over to him.

“Ciao,” he says just as he reaches him, and in his excitement and good mood, he is bold enough to place a kiss on his lips right there.

It’s brief, true, but satisfying.

“Botanical Gardens, really John?” Santino comments once he’s pulled back.

“You said I could choose,” John replies sounding absolutely unapologetic. He glances behind Santino, probably noting the fact that Ares is still in the car.

Maybe he would have protested before, but now in good spirits, Santino simply curls a hand around John’s. The man doesn’t startle like last time. Good. He’s always found Americans as a confusingly distant people.

“Lead the way then,” Santino says, partially resigned.

From the entrance they take one of the trails that leads them next to a pond. The torii gates clearly state the Japanese influence with a variety of bonsai to look at as they walk. Public spaces tend to be messy, but Santino finds that the garden is curated, well taken care of and without many guests.

“What do you like about this?” Santino asks.

“The quiet.”

It is true. Muffled by trees, the noise pollution of New York city that has known to drive Santino to headaches, is dampened and distant. They pass to the cherry esplanade. Though the trees have stopped flowering a while ago, it is still a calming sight. It reminds Santino of home.

“You would like Naples I think,” Santino says. “In front of the villa, we have acres of vineyards surrounded the estate. Have you ever been?”

“Not to Naples,” Johns says. “Rome. A job.”

“What did you think?”

“Julian is nice,” John says. Santino thinks of the Continetal di Roma’s manager and frowns. That can’t be it. “It’s old. Too many tourists.”

Santino laughs.

“Well, it is as it is. Venice is no better. Perhaps I can find a way to bring you a bottle of our wine next time,” Santino proposes. “Or bribe you to come to Naples.”

The suggestion is out of his mouth before he can think better of it. John Wick appearing in Naples would send alarms blaring before he ever reached the villa. Few men are as infamous as him, and fewer so clearly leashed. Massimo would disapprove, and Gianna would be enraged.

Santino doesn’t think too much of it, he doesn’t plan on leaving New York in quite some time. He looks up at John who has an interesting expression on his face. Santino does not know what it means; he has yet to learn the many meanings hidden in the twitch of his eyebrows.

“Your uncle would disapprove,” John notes, not looking particularly bothered.

Santino smiles. “When I was fresh out of school, I suggested to Viggo that it would be profitable to absorb the Ukrainians. He _ disapproved _too.”

They step into the rose garden.

“Then there was an accident. A storage facility burned. Hundreds of kilos of cocaine. The authorities were on the scene for months,” Santino continues, as they pass through the garden and head up to Osborne Garden. “And once the investigation was closed, the turf was ours.”

They stop and Santino looks up at Jon with an easy smile. “I get what I want. One way or another.”

Instead of commenting, John says, “How about lunch?”

#### -

Walking to Grand Army Plaza, they take a sharp right and follow the railway until they reach the end of the block. John leads him down the avenue where, tucked away between an apartment house and union temple, sits Tom’s.

Before he can even comprehend it, Santino’s already barking a sharp, “No.”

“I thought you’d let me pick,” John reminds him, sounding glib.

“New rule. If you or I really despise something, we can leave.”

John’s brows pinch but then he chuckles, it seems, in spite of himself. “You should have told me that earlier.”

Still, instead of heading in they continue down the street. At the intersection John stops again in front of Chavela.

Santino looks at it, disbelieving. He thinks, _ John really wants _ me _ to go in there? _ He looks up at Jon whose mouth turns up into a small smile and he nods as if to say, _ Give it a chance _.

“New rule,” John says, “we can only protest once.”

Sighing, Santino follows him inside. He should have expected this. He takes John to Michelin-star seafood restaurants, and John takes him to get mexican. At least, he notes, they’ve hit happy hour.

To call the place narrow is to say too little. There’s barely enough space for a server to pass between the barstools on the left and the seats on the right. The only thing that makes the interior palatable, in Santino’s opinion, are the high ceilings with two gothic chandeliers hanging above the bar, and the large windows covering the entire wall opposite of the entrance, allowing natural light to filter inside.

They find a free table and Santino takes the seat to the wall. Let John be jostled by other customers and passing servers.

Santino’s eyes jump from the bar to the collection of tequila hanging from the shelves, above which two mirrors lay, allowing customers to see what the bartender is doing. Santino desperately needs a drink.

“What do you recommend?” Santino asks.

Jon points to a few dishes, but refuses when Santino asks about a drink.

“Come on, John, I wish to celebrate with you,” Santino coaxes.

“Celebrate what, exactly?” His eyes narrow.

Smirking, Santino says, “I’ve just dealt with our _ serbo _problem.”

Somehow, John allows himself to give in, but only for one drink. Santino would have really rather taken a wine over a cocktail, but he supposes this could be a nice, non-repeatable, deviation from form. He remembers being eighteen and going on vacation to Spain. Granted, Gianna had been with him, but the cocktails had been nice.

Despite himself, once the food arrives and he has tequila in his belly, Santino finds he really doesn’t mind this all that much. This is obviously one of John’s haunts if for nothing else than, as the man himself said, for the good food.

“I thought you liked quiet,” Santino teases.

The people around them certainly aren’t. In Marea and Le Bernardin, the customers chatted quietly, respecting the atmosphere. Here, whether it’s because of the margaritas or the bloody marys, the people are rambunctious. Loud. Nestled between them, one could miss a man such as John Wick.

“Tom’s was quiet,” John replies, his tone just as light as before. Teasing, joking.

Santino grimaces. “I am sure we can find some middle ground.”

He looks at Jon and is surprised when he finds the man already looking at him. There’s no pretense to it, no particular intent. It’s a simple look, as if John’s just grasped the fact that Santino is simply another person, present, breathing, there next to him, _ with _him. Santino realizes John has been keeping a bubble around him and that now, for whatever reason, he’s been included.

Two drinks turn into three, three turn into five, five turn into Santino craving coffee. They leave, John paying for the meal and leaving a generous tip, for a coffee shop just around the corner where Santino chokes down an espresso.

Head buzzing, Santino feels particularly reckless but more than that, with John, he feels as if he’s finally landed in New York. Operating between the System and high-end restaurants, it could make one feel impermanent -- a there-and-gone face easily replaced with someone similar. However, under Jon’s careful hands, shoulders brushing, Santino thinks that perhaps New York isn’t so terrible after all.

John lets Santino curl his fingers around his tie and pull him down into a kiss. He tastes lime and salt on his tongue. The thought is forgotten, tossed away and unimportant when John steps forward and wraps a hand around the back of Santino’s neck.

He lets it be soft for a moment before he bites, and feels John tensing, grip on his neck going tight. Santino feels John shiver and it flares want within him.

He smirks when they pull away, the thunderous expression on John’s face only serving to stoke the heat in his belly. _ They’re celebrating _, Santino thinks.

He opens his mouth, leans in looking at John’s lips but pulls away at the last moment. “How do you feel about continuing this somewhere more...private?”

-

They don’t make it upstairs. Tripping out of their shoes in the foyer, leaving a trail of coats and jackets, they stumble into the living room. The couch cushions welcome Santino’s back and allow John’s additional weight which follows quickly after. Santino feels his head spinning and it’s not just with alcohol when John takes them both in hand, and strips their cocks until they’re both sweating, panting, trying desperately to reach their peak. There’s nothing comfortable is having sex while clothed, but John’s urgency wakes up Santino’s, and he can’t do anything else but kiss and enourage the man until they’re both spilling in his hand.

Afterwards, when Santino has tucked himself away and managed to regain some of his senses, he thinks the brownstone is kind of a shithole. In the light of day, he can see the cracked and chipping aged yellow paint stretching from the fireplace, in what would constitute as a study or a living room had the bookshelves been utilized properly, down the hall to the kitchen. The floors are wood, but they’re clearly old and scratched. However, the most noticeable thing is that it’s empty.

John’s home looks more like a safehouse than somewhere people live. _ As if _ , Santino thinks as he stands from the couch, _ John’s haunting it rather than living in it _.

The thought lingers when John just appears between one blink and the next on the other end of the room.

“Want that drink now?” he asks. It takes a moment for Santino to catch the joke before he snorts, and says, “Why not?”

He’d not thought to linger so much but he doesn’t wish to leave John just yet.

Santino walks through the living room past old bifold doors that would usually separate the dining area from the living room. Someone had wanted more space, or at least another office, because there are another folding doors just in front of the kitchen. John hadn’t bothered using them. The whole house gapes, underutilized and crumbling around him.

It raises the question if John’s squatting or if he owns the brownstone. It’s very possible it’s one of Viggo’s properties which he’s not flipped yet. After all, if he doesn’t want John in the hotel, it’s the least he could do for keeping the man on the leash.

“John, please don’t take this as an insult,” Santino says after he reaches him and takes his glass with two fingers of, as Santino’s found out is John’s favorite, bourbon. “But your house is kind of shitty.”

John’s mouth curls and he huffs out a soft laugh. “How exactly is that not an insult?”

“Take it as a...constructive criticism let’s say, yeah?”

Even the dining room isn’t particularly interesting. A large boring table with six chairs that spills into the kitchen with another table instead of a kitchen island. He sees a large fridge, maybe a decent oven, and back doors. Nothing particularly exciting. Nothing particularly John.

Or, at least, nothing that can tell Santino anything about him except that he likes to keep it clean.

“It came this way,” John says which is honestly not surprising.

Santino raises an eyebrow and replies, “So you’re squatting in your own house?”

“You sound like a friend of mine,” John says, leaning onto the table. Santino would find it infuriating, if he wasn’t so pleased that John’s finally found it in himself to be relaxed around Santino. He takes a seat in one of the chairs instead.

“Smart man.”

“He told me not to get involved with you,” John notes.

Santino grins. “Smart man.”

John actually laughs and this time it’s not suppressed. Santino watches as his whole face transforms. Crow’s feet creese around his eyes which close for a moment, allowing Santino to learn just how dark his lashes look against his pale skin. Santino wants to kiss him.

“Kind of figured that one out when I saw you,” John admits quietly.

And yet, Santino’s still in his home, or what consititutes as his home, drinking in his dining room after having spent the last three weeks fucking him.

_ Perhaps _ , Santino thinks, _ John is as much of an adrenaline junkie as him. _ He certainly doesn’t look regretful.

“Because of my devilish good looks?” Santino asks, a smirk on his mouth.

John looks at him for a long moment, then his mouth quirks and he says, “Because I would end up pissing off both Russians and Italians.”

Santino smirks. It’s a non-answer. “You don’t strike me as a fearful man John.”

“It would be...inconvenient,” John says, as if tasting the word.

Inconvenient, true, but not enough it seems for John to stop himself. Or to refuse Santino. It appears that John is just as interested in him as he is in John. Santino, stupidly pleased, laughs.

Their drinks are gone and so John stands. He takes the decanter and walks over to Santino. He nods in front of him and says, “Living room?”

Santino leans forward and sits at the edge of the chair. He hooks his fingers in John’s belt hoops. “Or bedroom perhaps?”

“Santino,” John says, and Santino can’t tell if it’s a reproach or agreement. He likes to see just how he affects John.

“Kitchen? _ John _,” Santino replies playfully scandalized and John huffs, shaking his head.

“You’d just complain about your back later,” John replies. Yet, he sets the decanter on the table with a loud dull sound, making Santino’s pulse hitch and skyrocket.

His free hand finds Santino’s face. It’s a little cold from the bottle but Santino doesn’t flinch. He’s daring John, that much is clear.

John seems to make a decision because he bends down enough to kiss him, and then he’s grabbing Santino, lifting him up by the belt, and grabbing him under his thighs just long enough for Santino to yelp before he finds himself planted onto the dining room table.

His hands slide down Santino’s thighs, grip his knees and spreads them so he can easily slip in between. It’s done so smoothly and with such confidence, Santino feels himself flushing all over while realizing that yes, he _ is _going to get fucked on the kitchen table.

It’s difficult to think when John starts kissing him again, comfortable and in his element when he’s at home. There’s something about his hands and about the way he touches his legs that has Santino’s cock twitching. He’s learning, extremely rapidly, how easy he is for John.

Santino startles when John picks him up again. He grabs onto his shoulders, crinkling his already creased shirt, and manages an undignified squak before John walks over and deposits him onto the living room couch.

Disappointment rolls over him and he frowns so John can clearly see it when he pulls back.

“No lube, no condoms,” John explains. He presses a kiss to Santino’s lips which is returned with a bite. He doesn’t seem to mind, the bastard. “Next time,” John promises.

When Santino’s face doesn’t change he simply turns around and goes to fetch their glasses and the bottle.

John doesn’t seem particularly apologetic. Not like he has ever appeared that way. The man rarely seems to regret his choices, which Santino both appreciates and loathes in this moment. Were it anyone else, they’d be hurrying to hop at his command, to appease him.

Santino breathes. But if it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have even ended up in their home. Santino’s affairs are a conglomeration of hotel rooms, spa resorts and safe houses where he can do what he wishes without thinking about privacy.

John’s home, however empty, feels comfortable if because of nothing else then for having John in it.

“You’re particularly cruel,” Santino informs John to which the man snorts, and hands Santino back his glass.

He sits on the other end of the couch, nestled against the armrest, allowing Santino to make himself comfortable. He lifts his legs up and folds them in the space between them. He drinks because he’s not angry enough to leave. Besides, it would be far too childish.

“So what do you actually do all day?”

“Depends,” John says. Then, before Santino can push him to explain, he continues, “Depends on the job. I usually go on drives. Walk.”

That’s as much as he says. A quiet existence then. As if he simply shuts off between jobs. Santino ponders how that can be interesting to anyone, but realizes John actually mentioned a personal thing. “Wait,” he says, “you have a car?”

“It’s in a garage nearby,” John explains. “I don’t use it for...work.”

_ No _ , Santino thinks, _ he wouldn’t _.

Santino wants to ask everything. Where does he drive? Does he always do it alone? What his favorite route is but, above all, he wants to know what John looks like when he’s, as they say, off-the-clock.

What Santino ends up saying is, “How quaint.”

John levels him with a look. “Do you always have to be an asshole?”

“It’s a family trait,” Santino shoots back.

John’s brow twitches. “Cute,” he says before he drinks.

Santino smirks and kicks John’s thigh. “I was talking about Gianna, not Iosef.”

John seems to know, or at least is familiar, with who Gianna is. “She has a reputation for being short-tempered too.”

La aquila di Napoli-- the eagle of Naples. His sister earned that moniker at twenty five. Santino is two years older than that, and has nothing to show for it.

Santino snorts and drinks. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Tell me,” John says, his eyes turning towards him.

Santino, despite himself and all that he’s been taught, does. Somehow, talking about Gianna’s explosive temper, be it over scuffles or their conflict with Matinellas, is easy knowing John’s listening to him so attentively. Especially when Jon says, “And you didn’t have anything to do with it?” With a small smile and warm eyes.

He drinks the bourbon and keeps drinking because John, at some point, takes one of his ankles in his hand, and then his feet are resting in John’s lap, and then Santino’s head is spinning and, only when it’s late and the room is washed in golden light from the bulbs, does Santino realize he’s quite drunk.

It’s infuriating how, even with alcohol streaming through his veins, John looks collected. True he’s loosened his tie and popped a few top buttons just like Santino, his sleeves rolled up, but John just looks comfortable.

Santino licks his lips, watching John’s forearms, and the informal slouch of his shoulders. John is turned towards him, his glass in his hand with the watch Santino can now see, and he looks nothing like the man Santino had seen in Viggo’s hotel. John looks, for the first time, open.

The realization is followed by a sudden wave of desire that climbs down Santino’s back and settles in his belly. He wants to do horrible things to John. He wants to broaden the alcohol flush, wants to see him coming apart, wants to push his buttons until he’s either begging or taking what he needs from Santino.

The delight is in not knowing.

With grace altered by alcohol, Santino somehow still manages to find himself on John’s lap. It’s warm in the brownstone and it’s far too hot when he’s belly to belly with John, but it doesn’t matter now that he can touch him. Santino cradles his face between his hands and tastes the bourbon on John’s tongue. The heat refuses to leave him; only climbs when John wraps his hands around him and moans low in his throat.

Under the stubble, Santino feels the heat of John’s skin that’s even stronger when he curls his hand around his neck. The heat follows his hand down John’s chest, past his belly, halting only at the top of John’s belt, before continuing again when Santino touches John through the fabric of his pants. He presses his hand against John’s cock to make him really feel it, and John shudders into the kiss, legs spreading more open.

Santino uses the opportunity to kiss John silly as he teases him like that, touching until he can feel John’s hands around him growing frantic, touching his back, his ass, his hips, while frustrated little groans leave his throat. It’s then that he tugs open the belt, undoes the zipper, and finally palms John’s cock.

Santino holds his chin so they can kiss while his other hand works up and down John’s length, way slicked by precome. He twists his wrist, tightens his hold, and is rewarded by a cut-off curse that break the kiss. He isn’t bothered really, instead he kisses John’s cheek and jaw. In his ear he says, “How about I entertain you tonight, John?”

Santino watches John’s expression breaking, his eyes growing glazed, body turning so responsive to Santino that every brush of his fingers makes John’s skin break out in gooseflesh. There’s nothing like watching John like this, when he decides he will let himself feel pleasure, and when he lets Santino kiss him, touch him, tease him.

“You’re drunk,” John finally says with a shuddering breath against Santino’s lips.

“So are you,” Santino replies, going in to kiss him again. However, Jon pulls back so Santino is forced to sit back onto his thighs.The room doesn’t spin, true, which is probably the best possible outcome.

“I don’t need bourbon to want to fuck you. You know that.”

“Still no supplies here,” John says.

Santino huffs. “I’m buying you a vase just to stash some in it.”

“Wouldn’t fit with my shitty house,” John retorts.

“Oh hush,” Santino says and this time John let’s himself be kissed.

They manage to migrate from the living room to the stairs, where Santino almost slips, starts thinking about stair sex, then thinks about broken spines. He says as much, to John’s no apparent horror. The man must have really seen it all.

Alcohol is slow to hit him. Santino never gets blackout drunk, never allows himself to lose his control, but he does feel the tingling in his toes that signal he’s overdone it.

_ It doesn’t matter _, Santino decides around the time he and John tumble into the bed, naked.

The worst kind of attraction, the absolutely uncontrollable type, is when every single action provokes fervid consuming want. That’s what John does for Santino. Whether John is unbuttoning his cuffs, tucking his hair behind his ear or dropping his pants, Santino wants him in all the vicious ways he’s learned he loves. And, right now, there’s something irresistibly depraved, impossibly satisfying, about having John on his back, spreading him on two fingers, and feeling all of his moans and groans against his lips.

Santino does it nice and easy. He likes explosive, overwhelming, gratuitous sex, but John is worth spending every additional second just for the way he squeezes around Santino’s fingers or throws a hand around his neck to keep him in place when Santino adds another. Santino’s accidentally spilled too much lube in his hand but it doesn’t matter, not with John so tight, not when he really starts fucking him on his fingers.

John’s cheeks are red, eyes shining in the half-light, brows furrowed as if he isn’t sure what to do with this kind of pleasure, but wants it anyway.

“John,” Santino says when one of his extraction attempts proves a failure. John’s grip is tight even like this. “How about you let go of me so I can suck you off?”

John’s closes his eyes for a moment, hole squeezing around Santino’s fingers tightly. Then he says, in a broken hoarse voice, “Yeah.”

Santino settles between John’s powerful thighs, excitement coursing through him. He touches the fair flesh, rubbing it with his fingers. He lingers, admiring, but only just before he focuses on taking John’s cock in his mouth and adding more lube to his fingers before thrusting them back into John.

The shape of John’s cock is familiar, as is its weight on Santino’s tongue, the stretch, the ache in his jaw after a couple of minutes. Sucking him off is easier than before. He triumphs sooner than before too, taking him into his throat until his nose is buried in John’s pelvis, soft dark curls scratching his skin. He starts bobbing his head, and feels the first tremors in John’s thighs, especially under his hand that holds his hip open.

John is overflowing with precome, so much so Santino has to constantly swallow if he wants to avoid choking. It doesn’t bother Santino too much, not when he feels John’s thighs closing in on around his head so he has to push them open again. John, who’s usually so in control, seems to be forgetting himself, and if that’s not something Santino should be proud of he doesn’t know what is.

Santino looks up at John and feels his cock aching where it’s pressing into the bed. John’s rubbing his own chest, other hand twisted in the sheets, looking overwhelmed and blissed out at once. Santino sees the flush, the raw fucking pleasure on his face, the greedy little expression when he glances down to see why Santino stopped.

Santino wants to give him everything, and then feed him extra. Instead, he settles on wrapping his hand around John’s thigh. He knows he should be stretching John but when he finds his prostate, John is so loud, that he doesn’t want to stop. For a while, Santino just massages him with his fingers, pressing his thumb into the perineum, and grinding his fingers into the spot until John’s thighs are working overtime, muscles bunching and releasing, tremors starting to really hit now the longer he does it. There’s more precum on his tongue then to swallow as John’s cock twitches.

Every time he glances up he can see John’s belly working, his chest collapsing, and he knows that John is close. So Santino speeds up his fingers. The hand in Santino’s hair tightens, until John moaning -- really moaning. It’s a pained low sound that has Santino so hard he thinks he might just come like this. John’s body locks up when his thighs close around Santino’s ears, and he spills down Santino’s throat.

Not to be discouraged, Santino simply fucks John through it until John’s all spent. His tights fall open, letting Santino rest his messy, tear-streaked and spit-slick face on his thigh as he continues undulating his fingers inside John, sucking on his cock until he’s groaning from overstimulation. Then Santino pulls his fingers out, dumps the condom somewhere, and wraps his hand around his cock until he’s spilling right into his fist, moaning against John’s hip.

It takes Santino a moment to gather up all of his splattered faculties. He tries to wipe his face and pushes himself up and watches John breathe as heavily as him. He cleans his his hand onto the sheets. Now that he can get away with it, Santino touches John’s calves, his thighs, his belly, touches everywhere he can reach, because he knows John is not made for touching. Santino shouldn’t have even been able to come this close. But he has and he feels the satisfaction of that sliding into place.

Eventually John gathers his breath. He motions Santino up, and kisses him regardless of the taste, and says, “Come up here. Fuck my mouth.”

Santino feels his cock twitching. “Thanks, but I’d rather get you hard again.”

John closes his eyes, muttering something under his breath. Finally, he says, “You know I’m not thirty right?”

“You were just fine fucking me couple of days ago. And anyway, we have time.”

Santino ends up being right. He manages to get John hard again after they get some water inside them and clean themselves up. He also manages to fuck him nice and easy, teasing the pleasure out of him, fucking him through his own orgasms, until he can barely feel his hips. It’s all worth it anyways.

Afterwards, Santino just manages to go to the bathroom and throw away all the wrappers and condoms, grab a glass of water, and clean John’s thighs up before he’s falling face-first into the bed. Still, they end up kissing for what feels like hours.

When he slips into sleep, Santino doesn’t even notice it.

#### -

Something explodes. Santino snaps his eyes open just to catch John startling awake as well, his naked back turning to Santino as he stands, showcasing his tattoos. A moment later, Santino realizes it’s not an explosion. It’s just his phone ringing somewhere downstairs.

He curses with feeling, flopping back onto the bed and taking large calming breaths. He must have forgotten to check up with Ares.

“You need to get that?” John asks, his voice gruff with sleep. It’s a far too appealing sound in such a stressful situation. With a nauseating feeling threatening to climb from his belly, Santino realizes that the bourbon is still in effect.

“Unless you want Ares busting in,” Santino replies, trying to swallow. Alas, his mouth is as dry as the Mojave, and he’s pretty sure something died in it the last couple of hours he’s been asleep.

John click the light on, flooding the room in orange light, much preferable to the midnight blue he woke up to. With a knee on the bed, god he even has a shitty mattress how could Santino forget, he hands Santino a bottle of water before disappearing from the room.

Santino is distantly aware of his phone still ringing, but he’s faced with the problem of sitting up and drinking, and he focuses on it rather than on the more important things such as finding his clothes. He really wants a gaviscon. Or an aspirin.

Santino’s phone keeps ringing, goes quiet, then rings again. On the third try, when Santino spots the pill on the night table, does John finally come upstairs and hand it over. Santino takes the pill, swallows it with water then picks up.

“I’m fine. Coming down,” he says and ends the call.

He sighs, rolls his shoulder and feels his spine crack then forces himself to his feet. Santino buttons up his shirt which he’d slept in then goes in search of his pants which, of course, lay neatly folded over the back of a chair. Santino notices John standing by the doors, arms folded, looking at him, just about the time he finally convinces his legs to go into his pants and his fingers to work out his belt.

John looks somewhat similar to a grumpy bear, a frown creasing his eyebrows, mouth downturned. The effect should be lost since he’s just in his underwear, but if nobody else, John Wick appears to be threatening even without his suit. Santino really should have known.

“She’s ordered to check up on me whenever I don’t send a regular message,” Santino explains. His mouth is dry again; he wants to guzzle a liter of water immediately but refrains from making a comment. He tries for a charming smile, though he knows he misses off the mark completely. “Apologies for the scare.”

John shrugs and, once Santino’s finished, walks him out. Santino wouldn’t bother with his jacket and coat, but John holds them out for him to slip into, and really, how can he refuse that?

Santino knows his mouth tastes unpleasant right now, so he doesn’t dare give John a kiss. In the end, at the doors, John ends up leaning in, one of his hands carefully brushing against Santino’s hip.

Santino turns his face, instinctively, and John goes in regardless, nosing past his jaw to lay a brief kiss right over his pulse.

Somehow, it feels like forgiveness.

“I’ll see you around John,” Santino says. He doesn’t hear a goodbye, even though he lingers, if for a moment, before jogging down the stairs and into the awaiting car that flashes its lights just around the corner.


	3. Three

The melody unfurls like a lolling tongue of a beast, spreading through the air inside his room, and vibrating it with increasing urgency. It’s a familiar and old tune. Gianna has always used it to rouse him whether he’d been working or spending the nights away and this time is no different.

Santino contemplates throwing the phone across the room for a few rings until he finally reaches under his pillow and picks up.

“Must you wait so long to answer each time?” Gianna asks, her voice loud.

Santino groans into the pillow and turns onto his back. He made sure to pull down the shades before heading to bed so his headache is only due to Gianna’s ineffable need to spike anger within him each time they talk. Sometimes he just wants to throttle her.

“Hello, Santino. How have you been Santino? It’s sure a good morning--”

“Oh shut it, it’s lunch time already,” Gianna scoffs. Over the phone, Santino can pick up the noise of other voices and cars. He looks at the phone to check the time. He cringes. Good thing he told Ares they’re staying in the hotel the whole day.

Santino rolls to his feet and goes in search of water. He’ll have room service today. Best nobody sees him so hung over. Maybe John was right, he really should have stuck with that one margarita.

“You stayed out,” Gianna notes in that sort of voice that hides both curiosity and violence. “Celebrating?”

Santino takes a moment to answer because he’s located a water bottle. “Something like that.”

“Santino,” Gianna’s voice is now disdainful. “I worry. What if next time I call you don’t answer? Then I find you strangled in your bed. Or his bed. Or worse.”

“A little breath play never hurt anybody,” Santino says just to hear Gianna scoff with disgust.

“You’re impossible,” she says, as if she wasn’t the one who wanted to charge the Matinella’s home villa. He says as much.

“It worked in the end, didn’t it?” Gianna asks sweetly.

“What is it that you want Gianna? Did Carlo Morcone finally decide to return fire?”

“He can’t even if he wanted to,” Gianna says haughtily.

Thanks to their calculations, D’Antonios had not attack Morcone’s directly which has done them a world of good. That is why the Marinellas were essential. They weren’t direct allies with the Morcones, but they could have been had Emilio Morcone, Carlo’s son, married one of the Marinella girls. However, Italian women have always had more sense than the men. With their father and brother dead, knowing Gianna, la aquila, was at their heels, they’d given in. Better to be alive and make friends, then dead.

It has made D’Antonios and Morcones on an unsettlingly even footing when it comes to allies and power in Italy.

“Emilio propositioned peace instead,” Gianna says, sounding offended. “Said that there was no reason why our two houses couldn’t _ share _ the wealth in Italy. And the world.”

_ As if marriage would tie his sister down into obedience _, Santino thinks as he dials the hotel desk and asks for breakfast. He needs a shower and he desperately needs to wash his mouth.

“Do you think they suspect?” Santino asks. “I did only deal with the Serbians yesterday but soon enough word will get to them.”

“They would be fools not to consider. However, for now, you’re Viggo’s _ consigliere _ dealing with his immediate issues. As far as they know, you’re there to help your _ father _,” Gianna says, intoning the word and twisting it with ridicule. Santino appreciates the sentiment. “In any case, Massimo has never been particularly ambitious before.”

“Massimo is as ambitious as it suits him,” Santino replies heading for the bathroom.

Gianna hums, silently agreeing with him. “So you dealt with the Serbians. Good. They’ll be the only ones happy, I feel, when Viggo realises what you’re doing because you keep fucking his--”

Santino looks at his phone then promptly hangs up. His phone starts ringing with messages, but he’s petty enough to ignore them until he’s marginally cleaner.

Unlike Gianna in Naples, Santino doesn’t have eyes and ears on all corners of New York. Nobody does, except perhaps the Bowery King. Santino can only wait to see the backlash from his meddling with the Serbians so, in the meanwhile, he focuses on Viggo’s increasingly moody outbursts and his truly terrible business ventures.

The issue with men like Viggo investing is that they’re bound to old rules and old ideas. Perhaps it was Gianna leading the charge, but Santino agrees both with her methods and her hunger. If there is space to grow, why stop at the 14th street?

Going up against the Albanians is not exactly a smart idea: they’re temperamental, unpredictable, and worst of all, bound by their home-brewed tradition of a blood debt. Were Santino to move against them, revenge would be swift and possibly explosive. Now with the deal with the Serbians in the works, and Sinaloa in Harlem, the ground isn’t particularly fertile for Santino to lay down roots. However, there are still streets south. Every king can be toppled, and the Bowery’s only advantage is it’s hidden position. Should they work out a strategy to find them, the only remaining question would be to employ stealthy men for the right price. But the Bowery King has kept quiet, conservative in face of the coming war, so Santino decides to ignore him until the Morcones situation is resolved.

Their attacks have stopped for now, but he knows it is only a time before they become more aggressive. If all should go well, Santino will use Viggo’s army to wipe out Morcones. Then D’Antonios can move into the liberated neighborhood. Already, he knows Gianna will be working Massimo, encouraging him to send men to await the takeover.

If Santino's careful, Viggo won’t know his involvement. If he’s not, then Viggo will find out only when the deed is done. Santino can cut his losses then and, more importantly, have somewhere to run to once its done. The villa, unfortunately, can’t sustain a large attack, and his pocket can’t sustain a prolonged stay in the Continental.

_ A lot of ‘ifs’ _, Santino thinks and it sounds a little too much like Massimo.

Kirill finds him in the one office the Red Circle has, surrounded by an increasing load of paperwork and a few choice words for Avi pinned to the forefront of his mind. Some things should just be computerized, Viggo’s fury or no.

“Sir,” he says and sets two thick binders on the table. “The monthly returns.”

_ Worst of all _ , Santino thinks, _ is that now he has to pick up Iosef’s slack and handle the damned club as well _. And, since Viggo absolutely refuses for the books to be carried out of the establishment, Santino has to spend an inordinate amount of time in it.

“When were they last checked?” Santino asks.

“Last quarter. Avi went through them.”

Santino’s lip downturns. “I appreciate you finding them.”

They were buried, to be forgotten, after being checked. However, since Iosef has been skimming off the top with drugs, Viggo wants to know if he’d been doing it in the club as well.

It wouldn’t surprise either of them.

Santino dislikes being saddled with things he doesn’t expect, and he dislikes even more being saddled with the Red Circle.

“Sir,” Kirill says, and Santino looks up at him sharply. He knows that tone. “Perhaps it would be prudent you...stay. To manage the establishment.”

Santino looks at Kirill for a long moment. He’s never given Santino an indirect command but it's obviously more than a request.

Kirill considers his words and adds, “Perhaps a few nights in a row.”

This alarms Santino but he keeps his face even. “Very well. Thank you.”

Before he can leave Santino says, “Kirill, the girl?”

“She kept the money and signed.”

Santino nods and Kirill leaves.

The issue isn’t exactly that it’s a nightclub though that too plays a large factor. The issue is the fact that both cocaine and heroine are pushed here, alongside with prostitution. If a raid were to occur, he’d be caught red-handed. Santino has been accused of many things, but self-destructiveness has never been one of them.

The VIP lounge allows for the better view of the club so Santino settles there with a glass of something bubbly that isn’t terrible, resigned to wasting his night in the club, while Ares glares down anyone in proximity to the table.

He understands, in some way, the need for the Manager to be ever-present. After all, the Continentals function strictly because of that anomaly. The manager is always in. The manager is always available. The managers has been of service, and will serve.

Santino has no intention of becoming another Julian or, worse, another Winston. He isn’t well versed in serving to anything for too long, except his own ambitions.

Against better judgement, Santino still stays in the Red Circle. He observes and learns the guard rotations, the staff shifts, the dealers that slip transparent bags into bags and pockets in exchange for folded cash discreetly placed in their hand, only for the product to be cut in the bathrooms on their granite counters and snorted by a revolving door of clientele.

On the lower levels, Santino notices how that cocaine is provided by their girls and he notes to whom it’s usually sold. He notes who buys the Moet, the regulars, the clientele from under the table.

The security rooms provide even more information. By the end of the week Santino knows why Kirill has told him to stay. The moment people know the manager is in is the same moment the tightly held veneer starts cracking and the whole establishment loses balance. The bartenders need less shifts and better supplies, the laundry rooms need more workers and a mechanics for the machines, the boiler rooms are a particularly nightmarish closets that would benefit by being introduced to cooling agents to at least make them habitable.

If Santino’s discovered this in a week, he questions what else Iosef has been sweeping under the carpet. So Santino starts with cracking open the books and telling Kirill to find him people to hire. With Little Odessa just an hour away in Brooklyn, he’s sure there are immigrants, cousins, and distant relations that will benefit from work.

#### -

John finds his exasperation hilarious. Or, Santino corrects himself, whatever hilarious looks like on John Wick’s usually-stern face.

“Kirill must be relieved,” John says around a mouthful of curry. Santino wrinkles his nose, dabbing at his mouth.

“I honestly cannot care less. I’m not here to play lower management.”

Not to mention the glaring issue of having to stay in Red Circle for most nights. Even though he doesn’t linger past eleven, that still makes it impossible to take John out to dinner -- a rather displeasing thought quenched only by the fact they’re here now, having lunch, in another one of John’s picks.

Laut is in the center of Viggo’s territory, but not usually a place to find a Russian considering it’s Southeast Asian mixed cuisine. Even Santino has to concede that their curry is fabulous.

“Have you talked to the girls yet?” John asks, persisting in being amused.

“Talking with the doctor on call,” Santino offers. He has yet to talk directly to the women working in his establishment, and he’d rather they not get too familiar with his face.

John hums. “Best ears in the city.”

“What do you mean?”

John gives him a look. “How do you think Viggo gets his...leverage? Russians aren’t the only ones using the establishment.”

_ Indeed _ , Santino thinks and looks at John with new eyes. Of course _ he _would notice. It’s a good tip.

“But be that as it may, the fact stands,” Santino replies. “Viggo should just employ a long term manager. Kirill isn’t authorized to make big decisions and he’s head of security anyway.”

Viggo had, of course, refused when it was proposed to him. He doesn’t trust anyone outside the family, and nobody is quite as good as Santino. However, Santino _ will _ have to go sooner or later, and will probably be replaced by, Santino shudders to think, Avi.

“You say that just because you are bored,” John says in that sort of way one might state that grass is green.

“Yes,” Santino says, exasperated. “As I’ve been telling you.”

“Admitting it is the first step.” 

Santino narrows his eyes. “Don’t get sassy.”

John looks at him, mouth quirked. One of these days, it will stop making Santino want to kiss him.

Santino is unexpectedly glad that his abrupt exit and his inebriation have been forgiven. Or, at least, John doesn’t bring it up. Santino can only assume he would, if it had bothered him. However, it’s still a relief to see John in his usual suit, long hair tucked behind his ears, letting Santino occupy his attention.

“You should come to keep me company. Alleviate my boredom,” Santino says, though he knows exactly how low the chances of that happening really are.

“How long do you have to stay there?” John asks, quiet enough that it almost gets lost in ambient noise.

“Undecided. Estimated duration, two-three weeks until everything stabilizes. But probably at least two months.”

_ If no wars break out in the meantime _, Santino adds to himself.

When John quietly accepts this with only the lowering of his brows, Santino has to push. He smirks and says, “Why? Already miss fine dining?”

John shakes his head. “Scheduling.”

-

Despite the concerns, their schedules do seem to alight. Though they tend to give each other a call or send a text a day or two in advance, John never ends up canceling and Santino curves his meetings to meet the times.

Lunch is different then dinner. Lunch is less formal but also bears less connotations. Lunch could be a business meeting, family ordeal, and in Santino’s case, an exercise in moderation. They’re made with the expectation of another half a day in front of you, not a nightcap and mindblowing sex.

Lunch, with John, tends to end quickly: either Santino stretching the allotted time until he’s late, or John cutting the time short due to obligations he must attend to.

Somehow, they still find time to take a quick walk.

It’s Santino’s choice to pick so he chooses Italian. The only reason they’re there is because of the not-so-terrible pasta and the fact Santino’s getting fed up with the rotation of good, but unvaried suits, ties, and bi-colored shirts John prefers. The tie shop is just a block away, and Santino had somehow managed to convince John to keep his gift, which now should be resting in the pocket of his coat.

John eats in the same manner as he eats anything, and once they’re finished, he helps Santino slip into his coat. New York’s weather is turning gloomy.

With a hand that passes quickly over Santino’s hip and disappears into John’s own jacket pocket, John spreads welcome warmth within Santino.

Their shoulders touch as they walk down the street to Santino’s favorite coffee shop, where he can finally introduce John to fine Napolitan coffee. He has a feeling that sharing this secret with John is safe.

It’s over the coffee that John asks him, “Are you tired from the club?”

Santino huffs. “If I wasn’t doing that...well I suppose I would be doing something else until midnight.”

He’d not meant it as an innuendo but he realises it is only a moment after it catches light in John’s eyes, making the man smile, albeit softly, but move past it. They’re standing close enough that nobody can hear their conversation, and between the long jackets, nobody can see John’s hand laying softly over Santino’s elbow.

John doesn’t say anything. He just touches Santino for a moment longer, before he retreats his hand and takes another sip of the coffee.

Only when he’s in the car on the way back to the hotel, does Santino realize that perhaps John was concerned.

#### -

John refuses sushi. He also refuses spas but accepts Turkish baths. He has a strangely wide knowledge when it comes to tile-work, but keeps mum when it comes to religion.

In a particularly heated debate about the spread of American-Italian restaurants, which with John means Santino waving his hand around and John talking more animatedly, he says, “If we want things to remain as they are, it is important that everything changes.”

To which John replies: “Don’t quote Il Gattopardo to me.”, making Santino realize that yes, John has indeed read Lampedusa.

Santino makes a face and says, “Shakespear would have been on the nose.”

Their bickering, because in truth there’s no other better word to put it than that, devolves from restaurants into a talk about postmodernism literature and John’s stern words of, “Don’t know what’s fascinating about war to writers.”

Thankfully, the mood doesn’t follow them from the Turkish baths into the hotel room upstairs, where Santino can exact all his cumulative frustrations.

Santino throws himself onto the bed, swaddled in a thick bathrobe with the bath’s insignia, and rolls on his belly, watching from his perch how John, so very unlike him, hangs up the towel, checks his clothes, dries his hair. A methodical creature. Santino catches flashes of strong thighs when he walks, sensitive flesh exposed to the air.

He’s seen John naked before. It isn’t about nudity anymore; it’s about John allowing Santino to bear witness to his fragile state. It’s about the fact that to kill John Wick he would need just a good nick to the artery on the inside seam of his lovely thighs, and his life would bleed out of him.

It’s about danger and motives always present in their lives, and it’s about knowing John could very well do the same.

Santino watches him prowl and says, “John, won’t you let be blow you?”

John doesn’t stutter in his step. What he does do is lick his lips and turn to look at him, gaze intense and piercing in the way he always gets when Santino pushes his buttons.

_ It’s not like he ever refuses anyway _, Santino thinks. John is systematic even in this, and Santino finds himself on his back, head almost hanging off the bed as John feeds him his cock until he’s completely down his throat. Santino can feel his hand touching his throat where it shifts each time he thrusts, moderated.

He can’t see much, can’t hear anything except the beating of his heart in his own ears. His eyes sting, pooling with tears, mouth drooling. There’s too much spit and too much pre-come, and John shudders every time Santino swallows, shoving himself back with more intensity, biting off half-formed curses.

Santino groans, when he can, and takes himself in hand, stripping his cock in time with the roll of John’s hips. _ He could come like this _, he thinks. John’s cock rubbing against his tongue and palette, choking on it when John holds himself still for a moment too long, knowing his airflow is restricted, knowing John could, if he wanted to, kill him in so many different ways with his throat exposed like this. Just the sheer fucking thrill of it has him wet in his hand.

When John pulls away, it’s unexpected but not unwelcome. His jaw was starting to ache. Santino tries to swallow a couple of times, but when he speaks his voice is still rough.

“What? Want to come on my face?”

“Thought you wanted to prep,” John replies.

Santino laughs, hefting himself up. He discards of the bathrobe, and says, “We can always do both.”

John settles near the pillows, resting his back against the headboard, and Santino crawls over to him. He supposes he should straddle John, but his head fits in his lap just fine.

John groans even as Santino turns to take his cock in hand before taking him back into his mouth.

There’s a moment where Santino can feel a shiver course through John’s body. He has one hand on Santino’s head but it doesn’t linger there. He takes the bottle of lube, pours some in his hand, and reach down, first between Santino’s legs then beyond, slick fingers curling inside him.

Santino moans, blinking up at John who has decided that touching Santino’s face is the best use of his free hand. Santino focuses on sucking him as John works more fingers inside, curling and stretching them, while his palm presses against his perineum and balls, making Santino squirm and leak on his belly.

The angle is good but Santino knows that movement of his hand and fingers is restricted like this. He pulls off of John with an obscene sound.

“Wa-_ wait John fuck--” _ he curses just before John’s fingers slip out to let him roll onto his belly and get onto his knees. His head still ends up in Jon’s lap, but more importantly John’s fingers can reach, finally, and John’s stretching him so well, his calloused fingers brushing so very nicely against his walls.

Santino can feel John’s hand on the back of his head, and he hums just before he finds it pushing him down on John’s cock, using his mouth to get off. Between that thought and Jon’s insistent fingers, Santino comes, whole body trembling from it.

It’s one of a few orgasms he gets that afternoon. John finishes soon and Santino drinks him down and laps him up. Instead of settling them, the orgasm only sparks John’s pleasure further. He’s all over Santino the moment he can, and they lose themselves in one another for a few hours.

It’s always a little distressing not being able to spend the rest of the day either in bed with John, or otherwise in his presence, simply because it takes Santino too much time to re-focus his mind from his hands, face, the ache of sex, into something much, much, less.

The thought hits him only when Santino re-surfaces from the shower -- they’d gotten dirty much too quickly after the Turkish baths -- and he sees John lying on the bed. At once, he feels the bruises on his skin smarting, his back aching, the muscles of his hand protesting sudden movement. One moment he’s lamenting forgetting his cologne, a mistake he will fix next time, and the other he feels liquid heat pooling in his gut once again.

It’s good that John doesn’t know exactly what he does to Santino’s libido. He’s happy to keep it that way, though he can hardly imagine John abusing the knowledge. Still, Santino needs to keep some secrets to himself.

John looks somewhat pitiful laying in the bed, barely covered with the sheets, one hand holding his head up, propped on the pillows. He looks back at Santino and watches him even when he focuses on the buttons of his shirt.

It only takes minutes for Santino to get dressed. Yet, even with the jacket on his shoulders and feet in his oxfords, he cannot resist from walking to the bed, sitting astride John’s lap and kissing him just for good measure.

John is warm under his hands, soft skin hiding the beast inside.

“Feel free to use their facilities, I’d booked the whole day anyway,” Santino says.

John hums and allows Santino to curl his fingers around his ear, to tuck the hair he’d been pulling just a couple of hours ago.

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” John says, dry as usual.

Santino laughs softly, and kisses him again. “I would say please have more fun than me but--”

“You hate people having more fun than you,” John finishes.

“On the other hand, I’d invite you to the Red Circle, but you just might turn homicidal from boredom.”

Santino gets off his lap, and straightens out his lapels, grabbing for the coat.

“Though,” Santino adds as an afterthought, “It might be fun. You’d give Viggo the scare of his life.”

He grins at the thought and watches as John’s expression works itself into wry amusement.

“I’m not going to the Red Circle to entertain you.”

Santino clicks his tongue, but has to give it to John. He never lies. No doubt Santino wouldn’t get any work done anyway should John actually visit.

#### -

After the initial two weeks, Santino decides that staying in the Red Circle every night is simply not manageable. Especially not when it appears that Iosef did indeed skim off the top, just a bit, and that he, indeed, managed to do it in the easiest possible way. Sometimes he just under-reported earnings. Santino is grateful that at least Viggo had sense to let Avi handle the taxes or they’d be in a whole other mess right now.

With the fentanyl lines corrected and the product distribution as fastidious as ever, Santino’s concerns fall on the issue of the Morcones, which he intently ignores. They haven’t done anything yet, the waiting game stretching not unlike pressure building in beer vats. Whatever the product ends up being, Santino expects it to be quick, explosive, serious, and potentially lethal.

However, being prepared for something in theory is much different to the reality and Santino doesn’t concern himself with it. He focuses instead on John -- his new favorite pastime.

From the Central Park, Harlem’s botanical gardens, Astoria Park and Randall’s Island, John makes sure to take Santino on an excursion twice weekly, though the location usually depends on the nearness of the restaurants they pick.

There’s something exciting in seeing where John ends up bringing him, and after the initial revolt, he gets curious about the restaurants as well. John is obviously a creature of habit. He likes his bourbon, he likes his stakes and Santino doesn’t see him changing his tastes anytime soon. The restaurants reflect that. Most are those kinds of places that might have been run by a family for the last fifty years. The other few are late-night chinese restaurants that looks like they don’t mind if a bloody man walks in and asks for some dim sum.

When John proposes they go on a ride, Santino’s just out of a meeting with Viggo, the infuriating man refusing to see reason when it comes to investments, and he doesn’t really think much about it until he’s sliding into John’s Ford Mustang not half an hour later.

The anger is still fresh in Santino’s blood, though he curbs it enough to be civil and say a proper hello, letting John press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. The car’s engine comes alive and John gets on the road.

“Where to?” Santino asks, though he’s speaking just for the sake of breaking the silence.

“You’ll see,” John replies evenly.

Santino nods and turns his gaze outwards, following the streets and buildings, though not really looking where they’re going. It never really matters. It’s John’s turn to pick the restaurant anyway, though with his belly tied in knots from his temper, he’s not really in the mood for food. Santino only knows they leave Manhattan because there’s a sign, and by the time John parks, his anger has thawed into mild irritation that threatens to turn into fatigue.

Gripping his coat around himself, Santino pushes out of the car and stretches his legs, joined by John a few moments later. Though the temperatures have plummeted since he’d come to New York, the weather is still dry. Santino doesn’t look forward to the rain and snow.

John brushes a hand over his shoulders, touches his elbow, and Santino gives in, looping their hands together, before stuffing the other in his pocket.

It’s another park, Santino notes, which at this point isn’t at all surprising. Santino doubts there’s much to see, especially with it being so late in the day, but they still take the loop around the forest of increasingly naked trees.

With a warm hand on Santino’s back, John leads him to a small cafe nearby, which is pleasantly warm and smelling of freshly brewed coffee.

“You know,” Santino says, standing in line with John, “why don’t you just get a dog when you like walking so much?”

John gives him a look, which Santino’s learned means John’s re-evaluating everything done to lead to that topic. Though what _ that _ means is still a mystery.

“You should have said you were tired,” John replies. “Could have done it another day.”

_ That isn’t the point though _, Santino wants to say. He frowns. “I’m irate, not tired. And that really has nothing to do with dogs. Unless you don’t like dogs. Do you like dogs?”

John’s frowning as well now. “They’re fine,” he forces out. Santino can’t help but think something has been lost in translation.

They get their coffee and find a place to sit. It’s getting dark outside, and there aren’t many people in, so they huddle in a corner not wanting to be bothered or overheard.

“Gianna is partial to them,” Santino offers. “We have dobermans as guard dogs.” Suddenly, Santino misses Naples more than he usually does.

He drinks his coffee, ignores the taste, and adds, “Didn’t Viggo have rottweilers a couple of years back?”

“Santino,” John says, his voice somehow echoing and drawing Santino’s attention. John touches his hand, just a couple of fingers pressed against his knuckles. “Are you alright?”

For some reason, Santino feels his heart speeding up so quickly, he thinks he might have heartburn. John’s eyes are hard, unforgiving, holding him still and watching him so completely, to engilfingly clearly and entirely, that there is no escape.

Santino takes a breath, swallows, asks, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

It’s as genuine an answer as Santino can give. After all, though the meeting had left a bad taste in his mouth, he’s spent at least thirty minutes in the car and another hour with John decompressing. He’s perfectly fine. Especially considering John’s company tends to brighten his usual outlook.

Instead of pulling back, taking the answer and returning to their conversation, John’s fingers travel up his hand until they’re against Santino’s wrist, resting just on the joint.

“You are...quiet today,” John says. His forehead isn’t creased as much as his brows are pinched together, forming great thunderous lines between his eyes. Santino has an inexplicable urge to run his thumb over them, smooth them out.

Unable to stop himself, Santino snorts and chuckles briefly, waving his other hand in a dismissive gesture. “So I am. As far as I know, bad things come out of my mouth when I’m angry. What is this about?”

John’s fingers curl around his wrist, press into his pulse point, then slide down. Santino barely catches them with his own, realising only then, he’s holding John’s hand.

“Dogs, apparently,” John finally replies, voice light with some joke Santino has missed. His perspicacious gaze finally shifting away and falls onto their hands. “What has made you angry then?”

Still somewhat confused, Santino says, “Viggo’s being stubborn. We don’t _ have _to talk about dogs you know.”

John looks back at him then chuckles, passing a hand over his face. Then he says, “I really could go for some bourbon.”

It doesn’t answer anything. Not really. But it tells Santino something John wants, and something Santino can give him. Thus, Santino is all too happy to leave his room-temp coffee on the table, and tug John by the hand, until they’re crossing the park to the car.

#### -

John drives them back to Manhattan and finds a bar. A bourbon and a whiskey later, Santino’s finally saying, “You actually do have a decent car. Nice vintage.”

John seems to find humor in his delayed reaction because he says dryly, “Thanks.”

As with art, Santino has no idea what’s popular about old muscle cars, but he appreciates the smooth drive. Perhaps that’s just John’s driving skills but he’s not walking back that compliment.

They drink. Santino isn’t sure how much they drink. He only knows John looks somewhat happy, which is a hundred times more than he usually appears, so Santino’s all too pleased with himself thought he doesn’t know what he did to make John make that face. Either way, they’re making the bar owner very happy.

It’s late when they resurface, and Santino knows that only because they have to leave. The alcohol has opened a pit in his stomach, and what with the skipped dinner, he thinks he has all the right to complain.

“I’m hungry,” he says, somewhere between John curling a hand around his waist and Santino putting a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s a place,” John says, as he usually does, when Santino asks for something. John always knows a place. “What do you want to eat?”

Some part of Santino’s mind seems to shut off, because he’s fairly certain he says something along the lines of pizza. He isn’t sure though, because John looks at him then, a rare full smile on his face, which Santino just has to kiss.

John’s car forgotten and Ares content to keep them away from a DUI, they go somewhere, and sure enough, Santino ends up with a thin slice of american pizza folded in his hand.

“Dollar pizza,” Santino says, disgusted but also amazed.

John shrugs, so Santino looks to Ares to have someone to commiserate with. Only Ares herself is eating a slice. Santino makes a noise of disgust.

“This isn’t pizza,” he says around a mouthful.

John hums and nods, and somewhere between the second and third slice they sober up enough to realize they’re getting full. “We should...sleep,” John says, leaning against the SUV.

“Let’s just do a hotel,” Santino replies, unsure if he said it in Italian or not. He’s known to slip.

“I have a house,” John states.

“And a shitty mattress,” Santino finishes.

They get a hotel.

#### -

Somehow, waking up to John is a test of expectations.

The sun doesn’t shine -- one of them remembered to close the blinds. A good thing, considering Santino wouldn’t be able to handle it right now.

John’s head is somehow wedged between Santino’s jaw and chest, and where one would consider it romantic, Santino finds it has made him have a crick in the neck.

His bear pokes. Santino has some of his hair in his mouth. But John is warm and heavy; the best qualities of best blankets.

However, Santino soon becomes uncomfortably aware of his bladder and sweat glands. He doesn’t really take in the hotel room, too focused on extracting himself from the bed in his dire need to reach the bathroom. He thinks it’s definitely not his brightest pick when he sees the en-suite, but he still finishes his business and goes for a shower.

When he gets out he sees John’s woken up as well, and talking on the hotel phone.

“Food,” he says, in a shot through voice that makes Santino all too aware of his nudity.

They switch, and Santino dresses before he hears room service knock. Santino really didn’t take in the hotel room but he should have.

The moment the two of them sit, looking at what someone might have at point considered dog food, Santino admits, ashamed, “We should have gone to yours.”

John’s brows, which lowered in clear disappointment, now raise, far too kind. “Next time,” he promises, patting Santino’s hand.

#### -

Brunch. Santino supposes that’s what they call it. They never get around to it because Santino’s phone rings, Ares then Viggo, and they have to separate. Thankfully, John’s car is just three blocks away from the hotel.

“Where are you?” Viggo demands, and the headache from the day before is reawakened.

Instead of alcohol, Santino really wishes John had just fucked him silly. _ Next time though _, Santino thinks.

To make matters worse, it’s Gianna who calls him next. She’s brief and thunderous at once. “Emilio is in New York.”


	4. Four

The warehouses creek, groan, then give in to the fire that roars inside and burns everything: contraband, papers, people. Vučić never makes it to that meeting -- his car is blown up two streets from the Continental. The Serbian operation is gone.

Afterwards, Santino’s told a grenade launcher was used. He cannot help but think it’s revenge for Matinellas, though Emilio left no indication that it is so. The only reason Santino knows that its the System is because they have rules, guidelines, and above all, a certain style.

“We need to find out who did this,” Santino says, looking at Viggo. It’s barely evening. Avi sits on the couch and Kirill stands beside the bar, observing them.

Viggo unfolds his hands and glares at Santino. “Who the fuck else uses grenade launchers Santino? It’s the fucking Camorra.”

Santino bites back a retort and instead says, “Albanians.”

“No,” Viggo shakes his head. “It’s the Italians. They’re tying up loose ends. What do you know?”

Santino breathes out through his nose. “Right now? Nothing. But I can find out. The fact is, them turning more aggressive doesn’t look good right now, but it’s not a direct hit on us yet. Which means they’re pulling punches.”

“Or threatening us,” Viggo says, leaning back into the armchair. He looks thoughtful. “How big is the operation here in New York?”

“It’s been the main one past fifteen years. They have one in Chicago as well, but it’s smaller. Have they been pushing into Hell’s Kitchen again?”

“Not yet,” Kirill replies.

Santino considers his words. “I _ can _ set up a meeting.”

Viggo’s gaze is fixed on the glass coffee table that separates the couch from the bar. Then he shakes his head and looks up, first at Avi then at Santino. “No. It will look as if we’re panicking. We’ll set up more security and wait to see if they reach out.”

His lips thin before he adds, “I find it odd that they’re doing this now. There is no reason, is there?”

Viggo’s eyes spear right through Santino. They hold, blue and cold, and if he were a weaker man, Santino would have bent. But he was brought up by Livia D’Antonio. Santino holds that gaze and says, “Morcones are not currently at war with anyone in Italy. Perhaps one of their Belgian cells got damaged and they’re working to recover the loss.”

Viggo’s gaze flickers and moves on -- a security light passing over him, no irregularities found. “Perhaps.”

The meeting continues with little of Santino’s input. Finally, Viggo says, “I want more security on you Santino.”

“Ares--”

“Ares is one woman.”

Santino sighs. “I refuse to cower in my own home. In any case, Morcones do not want war with D’Antonio’s should they harm me.”

Viggo grunts and waves him away.

As Santino thought, things are moving much faster than he’d anticipated. Emilio might be Gianna’s junior, a general waste of breath with bad taste and worse ideas, an unparalleled sadist and worse, a proponent of the slicked-back hairstyle with too much gel, but he’s learned his craft well. Sometimes, Santino despairs he was brought up with men such as him. Still, it is this fact that gives him advanced knowledge. If Carlo wasn’t serious about taking Tarasov territory he wouldn’t have sent Emilio. It’s the one guarantee that allows Santino to know war is definitely coming, whether Viggo likes it or not.

Ares gives him a knowing look when they go to the lifts and another one when they’re in the club again. It gets to the point where Santino simply has to know.

“Say it,” he instructs when they’re in relative privacy of the office.

Santino’s been busy trying to figure out if the tax returns are done well enough that there’s no threat of the IRS knocking on their doors any time soon. Not to mention that, after talking with some of the girls as John had recommended, he’s realized he needs a few new guards and definitely a new doctor.

_ It’s going to get dangerous from now on _, Ares signs.

“So?”

She sighs. _ So maybe late nights in the Red Circle aren’t smart. _

Santino lifts an eyebrow. Then lowers it. “A fine excuse to spend dinner with John no?”

Ares shrugs. It’s her own way of giving up on an argument, which Santino learned around the time he was twenty.

Santino supposes he should be concerned, but he feels nothing more than adrenaline and a strong wish for Emilio to attack. When he makes the first step, Santino can finally set his plans in motion. So, for now, he is fine with laboring in the Red Circle and ingratiating himself with the Tarasov men in employ. He is not a patient man, but for something like this, Santino can wait.

#### -

John surfaces by the end of the week. He calls Santino and in the middle of Santino telling him the time when he’s going to pick him up, John sighs. It’s not a particularly loud sigh, or particularly exasperated. Santino doesn’t know what it means, but it’s a sigh all the same.

The thought doesn’t trouble him as much as it’s present in the back of his mind all the way through dinner -- Indian fusion -- and all the way inside John’s home. It disappears, briefly, when Santino hands John a vase he had stashed in the back of the car for the occasion. John actually laughs and sets it on the fireplace.

John was right. Even with the lube and condoms, his back hurts from the table.

Unexpectedly, Santino notices something has changed with John. A different scent clinging to his fingers when they push inside Santino’s mouth. It’s not on his clothes as much as it’s on his skin, in his hair, and in the rough touch with which he holds Santino’s legs open, as if desperate to feel him.

The sigh resurfaces, hidden in the way John says, “Knew you would complain.” It's also in the way he picks Santino up, carries him to the couch, and crushes him with his weight. He tugs Santino’s legs open, and pushes back into him with a sharp roll of his hips that makes Santino’s back arch. John doesn't linger. He gives it to Santino just like he likes, just like he wants, forcing their hips together in quick precise tempo that has Santino's cock leaking all over his knuckles, his toes curling. There's no stopping to savor, there's no ebb and flow, just need, and hands gripping flesh that want to satieate it. Santino's body is racked with shivers each time John strikes the spot inside him, and he moans and lets John do what he wants, whatever he wants, because it feels just too damn good. He's reckless in this way as well -- putting his foot on the gas even though the road is wet. 

He throws a hand over John's neck and moves to meet his body in this bruising dance, moving his other hand over his cock because he knows, he's just there, he just needs-- Santino comes gasping against John's mouth, shivering with the sheer fucking intensity of it. It doesn't take John too long after that either, yet the slap of his thighs against Santino's is loud, just like the groan he releases into Santino's neck. 

The strange scent Santino finds in the way John presses bruises into Santino’s shoulder, harsh in his pleasure -- the car engine cooling where it's hit the tree. The sigh is secreted away when he carefully pulls out and passes something wet and warm between Santino’s leg to clean him up. The sigh is in the way John fixes his clothes, and waits for Santino to come about.

Perhaps Santino’s reading into things, but then again, it’s rare that someone stays up until one in the morning with him, and then gets up just to make him a stir fry because Santino’s, despite the splendid Indian food, in fact hungry much to his delight.

“I told you,” John says, and Santino rolls his eyes, a little bit fond.

Each night he leaves, Santino feels a little bit sad and a little bit happy, and he hates the confusion within him, so he elects to ignore it. In any case it’s not as if he’s not going to see John ever again.

A sigh is exasperation, fatigue, sarcasm. But it is also relief nestled gently between two lungs. Santino doesn’t know which he wants it to be.

#### -

John and he cover every green surface with their footprints, circling them before or after their lunches until the weather decides to turn for the worse. Winter in New York is never pleasant or pretty, much to Santino’s displeasure. He is accustomed to Mediterranean climate and absolutely detests the thick coats he has to wear to stay warm.

The first time Santino finds himself in the middle of the day in John’s home, he’s supposed to pick John up for their reservation at two. The brownstone’s heating is perfectly functional, thank god, so Santino feels comfortable strolling around in only his socks.

He spots the book only because it certainly wasn’t there before, only a few moments before he spots John with a particularly vicious bruise mottling his jaw.

He’s dressed to go but something about the way he holds his shoulders tells Santino he’s exhausted. So Santino picks up the book, paperback with the spine cracked, and reads the title. _ The Funeral Party _.

“Should I ask?” Santino says.

After a moment, John stumps over to him and presses a hand to Santino’s back. “It’s a good book.”

Seeing that John wishes to elect and ignore his injury, Santino sighs and says, “It’s been raining for the past five days. Ares can get us takeout.”

Santino spends lunch, and the better part of the evening, alternating between reading and talking with John, eating and trying not to stare at his bruise. His coffee is terrible, the one thing he complains about.

Perhaps it’s all the better they’d stayed in that night. Viggo calls to tell him there’s been another explosion: the Bernardin.

#### -

Viggo is tense, and it makes all the others tense. He’s a prowling lion, trying to find something to sink his claws in.

“The Camorra respect strength, Viggo,” Santino says, trying to ignore Avi and Kirill’s eyes that almost beg him to stay quiet. “Perhaps we should consider sending a little message.”

Viggo snarls. He advances upon Santino, so quickly Santino thinks he just might strike him. However, Viggo holds himself back and only yells. “You are here to make peace, not to send me into fucking war!”

Santino inclines his head. He hates how the threat of violence is always present when the man is displeased. Massimo is the same way. Anger on anger, violence on violence, layers pressed so tightly together they can’t be separated anymore, a puff pastry of vitriol constantly shoved down Santino’s throat, that he has to swallow and smile, pretending it's anything but putrid. As if Santino doesn't have a temper on his own. As if he doesn't have pride. At least with Gianna, Santino knows she will get back at him in a more manageable way, be it saddling him with a task or working out he stays secluded in the villa.

“Nobody _ wants _ war,” Santino lies. “It’s far too expensive going against the bratva, against you. We can do what we did with the Serbians. Trade a few blows, then talk when they see they can’t fuck with us.”

Santino knows he makes a convincing case because Kirill says, “Sir. The Serbians did back down in the end.”

Viggo looks at Avi who nods. Thus, he watches the great while bear exhales through his teeth. “Fine,” he says. “But carefully. I do not need any more losses.”

Santino counts it as a win.

#### -

The rain gives in to snow. Santino would have liked to spend December home, in the villa, but he finds John’s home not so different. John is never boring.

Santino finds the book on the table, marked where he stopped, and he finishes it while John makes food. Ares is invited inside for a meal and a coffee, but she retreats to the car after Santino and John get a little too cozy on the couch.

Then, once Santino grudgingly agrees that the book is good, he finds another one in the kitchen. Santino would spot Albert Camus anywhere, especially considering it had been school reading material. The stranger, in French, reads as easily as it had read in Italian.

John sits with his own book sometimes, content to read in Russian or Spanish or Italian. Santino does not think too much about such meetings. Domesticity and fondness are striked out of his dictionary. This is him learning about John. It is strictly utilized to satiate his curiosity and John’s house is comfortable only because it’s away from the tension within the hotel. The coffee is better too: John’s found some artisanal Moroccan blend.

“Where are you hiding these books?” Santino asks on one occasion. He’s holding _ A Hundred Years of Solitude _ barely cracked open simply because if he were to spread it any more the paint would chip and fall apart.

John looks at him for a moment, then gets up, and motions Santino follow him. Carefully laying down the book, Santino follows John up the stairs and into one of the other two rooms that’s not the bedroom.

It’s small, probably supposed to be a guest room. There’s a single bed that looks slept in and a shelf filled with books all well-loved and well-read. John isn’t a particularly big reader, Santino doesn’t think there’s more than twenty right there, but it seems John likes to stick with what he likes.

Underneath them he finds old VLCs and DVDs, and thinks better of it before he laughs. It’s a sort of sanctum sanctorum John has just invented him in. He knows better than to make fun of it.

Yet, he can’t stop from commenting. “God, VLCs John? I always forget how old you are.”

John rolls his eyes. In the end, Santino falls asleep watching neon colors of Lost in Translation’s Japan wash over John’s open face.

#### -

Hell’s Kitchen burns. The warehouses just south of the ones Serbian's held are raided. Tit for tat. Santino ignores the first call from Emilio, and all the following.

#### -

The Tarasov hotel pulses in time with Viggo’s obvious displeasure. With Iosef nowhere to be seen and Kirill’s men making it difficult to breathe, when John calls just shy of twelve, Santino feels it a rather welcome break in the pattern.

“Let’s go for a ride,” John opens, sounding exactly as awake as Santino feels -- which, considering it’s grown cold and he’d loathed to leave the bed that morning, is not very much.

Santino watches Viggo strut in, wearing his terrible crossed face, Avi chasing after him while talking his ear of, and immediately accepts.

“When?” Santino asks.

“When can you get to Brooklyn?”

Santino suppresses a fond smile and says, “Soon. I’ll text you.”

He finishes the conversation just before Viggo gets within the earshot. He stands from the breakfast table.

Viggo says, “The night club. Kirill said you were moving personnel around.”

Santino curses his luck and says, “Just a few guards. The girls have been complaining about them getting too handsy.”

Viggo’s expression darkens. “Good. Send me the full write-up.”

“I will,” Santino agrees and slips away.

John’s in his car when Ares drops his off. He dismisses her and gets into the Mustang. It’s simple to lean over the console and plant a kiss on John’s lips after a hello.

He asks, “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” John replies, and turns on the engine.

Santino looks into the back of the car and spots thermoses. Sure they’re the military issue kind, but they’re unmistakable, and he wonders if he’s ever told John just how much he hates the cold and that while the walks are fine he isn’t keen on doing them in terrible weather, leather gloves and thick coat or no.

“Have I ever said I hate the cold?” Santino asks.

“You’ve mentioned it,” John replies with a look, which means not only did Santino mention it, he probably raved about it at one point or another.

When they pull up in front of Brooklyn’s Botanic Garden he considers exactly how much his image would suffer with putting a hat on. He hates hats. Loathes them. But perhaps he could suffer through if he doesn’t want frostbite to take his ears.

And there are people on the streets.

“I don’t know how you people survive here in New York year after year,” Santino says, jogging across the street with John who, in a long black coat that matches perfectly with his suit, doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. Santino hates him a little for that.

“I’ve had worse,” John says. Santino snorts because of course John Wick has had worse. He’s the type of person who’d go to the bank because the credit card bounced and realize his accountant had been ripping him off for years. Bad karma.

“Are you going to tell me you going to tell me you fought a bear in Russia during winter?”

He can see the frown between John’s eyes. “No,” he says, but at least sounds somewhat amused.

They go inside, and to Santino’s surprise, they make their way through the greenhouses that are not only warm, but pleasant. The thermoses are filled with coffee, and they sip it slowly as they make their way through the gardens.

Santino makes a few attempts to guess where John has experienced worse winter and realizes in the process that he knows very little of John’s life. Or rather, he has gotten stills from a movie: a job here, a job there, a one-line explanation of a situation. He knows how John takes his liquor, like his food, and how he fucks. Recently, he has found out his liking of westerns and his taste in books. But he doesn’t know where John was born, what his first language is, he doesn’t know the long or short road that connects the pictures, that tell the story.

He realizes, with a sinking feeling in his belly, that he would like to find out.

It’s a shock to the system when they step outside. They huddle together, more from Santino’s insistence than anything, and the car can’t get warm quickly enough once they’re inside.

Santino wishes the weather were clear, but New York is swaddled in the same milky-white sky that heralds snow. Be that as it may, New Yorkers have gotten used to everything it seems, so that doesn’t stop them from scurrying along the pavement and through the streets. The traffic is unbearable; it appears as if the number of cars has doubled, and there’s taxis everywhere.

Through the drive, Santino attempts to rationalize his previous epiphany, but every time he recoils from even thinking it, and so he resorts to allowing himself to feel pleasantly surprised, and pleasantly happy, and all around pleasant for being outside of the hotel where Viggo’s terrible temper won’t sour his mood.

They stop at the docks and Santino rushes from the car before he can change his mind, traffic be damned. At the corner of a building he turns around to see John laughing at him, as in actually full blown laughing, chin tucked in, looking down, smile is unmistakable.

For a moment, Santino forgets it’s terribly cold. John reaches him by the time reality filters in and Santino lets him wrap a hand around his shoulders. The smile isn’t gone either, it lingers in his eyes, so much so, Santino isn’t quite ready for the stuttering his heart seems to enjoy doing when he’s with John.

John leans down, Santino looks up, and then there’s a cold nose pressing into his neck. Santino squeaks and says, “You’re such an asshole John--”

John turns his cheek to kiss it then kisses the corner of his mouth and then his lips. Santino sighs, leaning into it because when John asks for something, which is a rare enough occurrence, he has to give it to him.

“Can we please stop freezing our balls off now?” Santino asks after John’s pulled away and he’s blinked a couple of times just to make sure that yes, he’s wrapped under John’s hand and that yes, he still has function of his legs.

John nods and leads him into the building. Santino just glances at the restaurant name -- The Fulton -- before he’s distracted by the fact that it’s full, it’s hot, and that John seems to have made a reservation.

They’re seated, drinks are served -- white -- and Santino admires the decor which isn’t like one of John’s usual haunts. When Santino cracks open the menu he notes that most of it is seafood. Then he realizes that no, it’s _ not _ a place John goes often. He _ planned _ this.

Santino looks up from the menu at him and tries not to feel too warm.

It’s not Le Bernardin, not that kind of _ fancy _ as John would say. It’s young, contemporary, and casual. It’s a place where nobody will bother them, far away from the Italian conflict and Russian reach. They fit.

Santino swallows and looks at the menu and tells himself he’s being pathetic.

They order, John characteristically sticking with beef while Santino goes for the salmon. The view is nice, just the open sea. Next time he has to pick something truly extravagant to bring John to.

They talk about the bar, the weather forecast, Santino’s plans to stay in New York to which he replies, “Depends, really. Two, three years at least, if things should go well.”

John seems to soften somewhere between dessert and another drink, which they take at the bar, shoulder to shoulder, laughing about the ridiculous cocktails and molecular gastronomy.

There’s work to be done --- there’s always work to be done, but hours slip away, and the night falls prematurely as its wont to do in winter. Six o’clock parks just behind them when they leave the bay. Santino should go to the hotel, but when John invites him back to his, it’s terribly difficult to refuse.

“Alright,” Santino says, just to watch that expression on John’s face that follows him all the way into the brownstone, to the decanter with bourbon, the couch, and the TV which is suspiciously apparent in the living room.

#### -

The Searchers are on John’s disused TV screen when the man presses a kiss to his hair, the hand curled around Santino squeezing his shoulder. “The winters in Belarus we spent cooped up with the other children from the orphanage. There was no heating. We barely had any blankets. The chill crawled into your bones, refused to leave. It was a bad time for anyone behind the Iron Curtain. ”

Santino stills. Heart beating quickly, Santino looks up, and sees John looking ahead at the screen. He turns back to it.

“They couldn’t get all of us out. What children they couldn’t smuggle to sell for adoption, they left behind. They needed soldiers. I was one of the fortunate ones.”

John talks for a while. It’s a gruesome story of Belarus, Ruska Roma, and the ships he’d come in to the new world. Everything must be better than that. When he finally stops, Santino has no reply ready. Many are in his head, but all fall short, seem facetious, threatening to trivialize. The only appropriate thing seems to reply in kind.

Santino says, “Each time things go wrong I wonder if it’s going to be Viggo or Massimo who put a bullet in my head.” It’s not fear Santino tastes on his tongue. Just betrayal. Perhaps, the one betrayal a child somewhere in New York, a year old and with his mother, never expected. It's the one thing he never though he'd be able to recognize. The irrational part of him lingers on it; rationally, he knows it's all just business -- just profit and usefulness. 

“You know how it is, violence is always just right around the corner. And then I come here and-- there’s none of that. There’s nothing to...prepare for.”

He never expected to find peace here the same way he never expected to have his legs propped up on the coffee table, head on John’s chest, watching a thirty-year-old movie. He’s never known this. It offsets everything else that has come beforehand, it contrasts with his life, it puts his families in perspective. They are all, Santino realizes, quite the same.

The silence is heavy, so Santino looks up at John, who has a softness in his face that pains him to witness. Santino is kissed. He kisses back. That is all they can really do for each other, two wholes that were never supposed to come together in the first place.

Santino turns back to the movie, and tunes into the plot once again.

John Wayne’s talking about something on the screen, and he knows it’s important because John’s almost holding his breath. It's then that his phone buzzes.

A message from Kirill reads, _ They took two blocks. Five men shot. Crit. Cond. _

He ignores it, but his phone buzzes again. Ares. _ Kirill wants location to send backup. _

_ No _.

Finally he texts Kirill, _ Camorra losses? _

_ Minimal. _

Santino’s lip downturns. However, he’s truly displeased when he sees Viggo calling him. He gets up from the couch, removing his legs from the coffee table, and goes to the kitchen.

“Where are you?” Viggo demands.

“What has happened?”

“You little eye for an eye is costing us Santino. Costing us big.” There’s something in Viggo’s voice Santino doesn’t like.

He says, “If you sent men to hit those docks I told you about no lives would have been lost.”

“Fuck the docks!” Viggo shouts. Santino cringes. “Your fucking game--”

“This isn’t a game,” Santino demands. “_Papochka _ , _ please _. Deal with the docks, you will see, I am right.”

“If this spills into the streets, nobody will care if you’re right or not Santino, and we’ll have worse to worry about than the local NYPD.”

“I know,” Santino says. “I know. It won’t. They can’t keep this up.”

Viggo hangs up on him, which is just as well. Santino sighs, and turns to see John leaning against a wall. He startles but only just.

John’s eyes are sharp when they look at him, so unlike the way they usually are when they’re together.

“Viggo doesn’t sound happy,” he notes.

“Yes, well,” Santino says bitterly. He’s too aware of his confession now. “When _ is _ he happy.”

He moves past John, but the man follows him.

“Santino,” he says, voice not tentative but questioning. “What are you doing?”

It’s a broad question. John’s giving him a courtesy, but he still wants to know. Santino licks his lips. “What I can. For me. And for the family.”

John looks at him for a long moment, eyes filled with realization. He says, “Viggo’s your father.”

Santino grits his teeth, cocks his head and challenges John with a stare. John is never slow. Viggo being his father means very little in the scheme of things. “I am a D’Antonio, John.”

He wishes he sounded more convinced, more proud, more than two steps above defeated now that he’s realized they’re all the same.

That is all the confirmation John needs. He watches John’s hands spasm. Suddenly it’s far too cold in the brownstone; Santino’s gotten too comfortable. John is paid by the same man Santino has betrayed. He realizes that the kitchen has been a stupid idea. There are knives in the vicinity, and if not a knife, John can always throttle him with his bare hands, break his neck on the corner of the table.

“He’ll find out,” John ends up saying. Santino releases a breath when John moves forward, laying a hand on Santino’s shoulder, and shudders realizing that there’s no danger for him within John’s grip. “What you’re doing is dangerous.”

“My life is dangerous. I can’t run from it. It is me. And there’s everything to be gained from such risk.”

“And everything to be lost,” John replies.

Santino snorts. “Burning a few bridges is hardly all.”

John sighs then bends, kissing Santino. It’s soft enough Santino expects it to be a one-off, for John to offer they go back to the movie now paused on the large screen. But John coaxes his mouth open, holding him still with a hand on the small of his back, possessive.

He’s dazed when John pulls back, heart unsure what to hammer for anymore. Danger has passed, but his adrenaline is still skyrocketing, sustained by John’s insistent touch.

“What are you doing?” Santino asks even as his back meets the wall. John, somehow, manages to tower over him, obscuring Santino’s vision with his broad shoulders and his insistent eyes.

His body has already learned the signs: it aches now, his thighs working, cock twitching in interest. He hadn’t expected sex but now he craves it. Then John kisses him and, pleased, Santino lets himself be coaxed into the bedroom.

Despite the hurry with which they climb the stairs, once Santino is on the bed, John slows down. He couples kisses with groping him through his pants before his hands wander up. He plucks at the remaining buttons, the top of which Santino had unbuttoned and done away with the tie for the sake of comfort, and trails his lips over the exposed skin.

Santino curls his fingers into John’s hair, tugging, confused about the direction in which this is going. In bed, Santino is used to biting kisses, haste, and to pushing John’s buttons until he fucks him hard, just like he wants it, like they both need it. Slow is new. Slow defeats expectations, though Santino isn’t sure it’s a good thing.

John looks at him, then continues until Santino’s shirt is open. His cuffs are next, undoing one, kissing his wrist, and doing the same with the other. Santino gets a terrible ache within his chest when John just looks at his hands, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles, and wishes now, more than ever, he could see what is in his mind.

This just might be the first time he goes to John’s where his shirt is creased for reasons other than sex.

“I, uh, should probably shower,” Santino says just to get away. John is usually intense, but this plays at the edge of being too much.

John stops and moves away. “Alright,” he says, and lets Santino slip away.

Behind the bathroom doors, Santino takes a deep breath, then another, looks himself in the mirror, then does away with his pants and gets into the shower. He convinces himself, in those five minutes, that it’s all in his head, that no, John isn’t too intense simply because he is _ always _intense, and that even if he did, that’s what he wanted anyways -- his eyes on him.

With that conviction, Santino exits the bathroom. He leaves the towel at the foot of the bed before he’s straddling John, who doesn’t tolerate it, and instead flips them so he’s on top. His naked chest is warm to touch, and Santino indulges, while John kisses him.

And then, just like before John slows down, touch grows soft, reverent, and Santino realizes that no-- John has changed the game and forgot to tell him the new rules.

John retraces all the places he kissed only minutes prior, and goes lower until he’s right there, pressing kisses and rubbing the skin of his hips.

“John,” Santino says, a warning, a plea, most of all a question. John’s hand trail up the inside of his bent legs, rub his thighs, touch and touch and touch until Santino repeats John’s name, all over again.

John sighs and says, “Just. Let me.”

It’s a warning that the show will continue, a plea to let it, a question: please? Santino closes his eyes and looks up at the cracked ceiling. He knows himself enough to know he will give in, because John is _ asking _, and Jon rarely asks for anything, and he wants to give, and give, and try to fill him up with whatever he’s missing.

Finally, Santino says, “Alright.”

How close can fucking come to worship? He now knows what it feels to have John’s mouth on every inch of his skin that tingles, remembering it, and wonders when there will be more. John flips him and kisses the back of his necks, mouths across his shoulder blades, digs his fingers into his back dimples, and traces his hands over and over his skin, until he’s satisfied. Then he spreads Santino’s cheeks and licks into him, over and over again until Santino’s cock is leaking onto the sheets, his breath hitched where he’s buried it into the pillows.

Each time he tries to rock back John retreats, and so he’s stuck, holding still, just feeling John’s tongue inside him until he’s wide enough for more.

He’s grown oversensitive, and John knows it when Santino moans with just a finger inside him. _ He should stop this _, he thinks just before John does something with his tongue that has Santino groaning and pushing back, desperate to chase the sensation.

John pulls away and Santino breathes through the frustration. Each time he thinks he should stop, John does something, like add a finger, or kiss his skin, hold his thigh, curl his fingers, giving him excuses and excuses why not to, feeding him bits of devotion Santino never knew he was hungry for until now.

By the time John actually lines up to sink his cock into him, Santino’s well out of his mind, heavy with need, full from John’s particular breed of tenderness. He whimpers when John moves, sensitive. But even in this John is soft, rolling his hips just so, teasing the pleasure out of Santino’s body, not giving too much, nor too little, until Santino’s fed up and hurtling toward the edge of his patience.

Santino curses and says, “Fuck you John, _ fuck _, fuck you.”

He can barely recognize his own voice: too high, too needy, too different. There’s a hand on his bicep, and John’s sliding out just before Santino’s coaxed onto his back. John slides easily between his spread legs, sinks into him, and Santino crosses his legs behind his hips, hands around his neck, and welcomes John into him with a kiss that lingers.

John’s steady rhythm continues until both of them are sweating, straining, feeling their release nearing, their grip turning hard. Santino brushes the hair out of John’s eyes, holds his face as he kisses him until he’s gasping, toes curling, thighs shaking in warning just before he feels the heatwaves of pleasure wash over him -- his need propelling the wildfire until it's spread through his body and burnt him up.

He feels it, more than ever, when John snaps his hips and groans -- his teeth in Santino’s skin, but not harsh like he wanted it, not harsh like both of them really are. His head rests on Santino’s chest. Their sweat mingles together. They are intertwined. A few small whines leave John’s throat as he fucks his come into Santino, and Santino lets him, always lets him, and fuck, did they forget the condoms? Doesn’t matter, nothing matters now, his brain has zoned out and tuned into the frequency of John’s body. He's held and he holds and isn't that all that matters? 

John pulls away and slumps next to him. It’s too hot to be so close, for their bodies to still overlap, but Santino lets it because John is close, John is _ close _, and wasn’t that the point anyway? To have this beautiful deadly creature at his beck and call, to twist it and make it submit to him, when it has never submitted to anyone?

But, Santino feels, control was an illusion this whole time. There’s no submission from either of them when they bend for each other so willingly, not when John’s just blown his mind with thousands of confessions that lay in his belly a heavy meal.

Santino wants to kiss him and remembers himself just in time to veer off. The kiss lands on his brow, and perhaps that’s worse. John curls into him and Santino let’s him, holding his head to his chest, and trying not to think because if he does he will remember that they’re men made to resent softness and sneer at it. But he’s still a D’Antonio, always greedy, thinking of it or not, and he lays a possessive hand on the back of John’s neck, and wants to keep him.

#### -

Perhaps the best hidden secret with the longest expiration date he and Gianna ever managed to sustain is Santino’s preference for men. Gianna always seemed to know, somehow. He doesn’t remember the time when she didn’t. He still remembers her face, serious, almost ill, void of her characteristic anger, when she said, “Massimo cannot know. Do you understand, Santino?”

She had known the consequences, and conveyed them in two simple sentences. Massimo cannot know, no matter what.

Santino never considered how Massimo’s wishes would reflect on his adult life. As a child of a family, it’s difficult to get an outsider perspective, and Santino thinks he’s just got it.

He’s never wanted to keep anyone. Not for the long road anyway. But Massimo cannot know. He and Viggo really are all the same.

#### -

Reality filters in slowly: the coldness of his skin, the heaviness of his body, the aches. John is still there; a novelty. Santino looks at him for a long while until his phone starts softly vibrating, even that too loud in the silence.

John must have put it there after he got up. His clothes are folded on the chair in the room, instead of gathering mold in the bathroom where he left them. Santino tries to sit up, which leads to John’s hand ending up around his waist, face pressed into his hip. Fondness floods his chest, prompting him to reaching down to touch his hair. The want is inescapable even now.

Santino takes his phone, sees it’s Ares, and answers. “I’m fine. With him now. Let me check the messages.” He goes over them quickly, then says, “Nothing than can be done about that I’ll--”

He looks down and sees John’s eyes are open. He presses a kiss to Santino’s hip, his hand squeezing the other. Santino feels a flush rising on his skin even as he stops his fingers in John’s hair to touch his cheek.

John doesn’t say anything, but sometimes he doesn’t need to.

Santino should go to the hotel, parade around a little bit, deal with Viggo. Instead, he says, “-- Kirill can handle it. Take the night off. See you in the morning.”

He ends the call and places his phone back onto the nightstand before he shuffles back down into the bed. It’s barely past nine but Santino feels as if it has been midnight for hours.

They linger, touching, breathing, existing for solid moments where there’s nothing between them. Santino traces John’s tattoos and doesn’t ask about them, while John traces the few scars on Santino’s skin and does the same. They already know the answers anyway: their history is written on their skin in a language only they understand, having learned it by knowing one another.

When he gets drowsy, however, Santino pushes himself to sit up again. “I need a shower,” he says. John has done a fine job of cleaning them up, but the unglamorous part of not using condoms still lingers.

“Just sleep, Santino,” John says.

“I would if _ someone _ didn’t decide to come balls deep inside me,” Santino says, crude as always when making a point. He forces himself out of bed, and into the en-suite. He’s getting used to the scent of John’s bodywash.

He lingers on it, breathing it in before he wraps up his shower and exits.

“Do you have a spare brush?”

“Under the sink.”

He finds the toothbrush, thank god, and finishes up just in time for John to walk in.

“I am fairly sure brownstones have more than one bathroom,” Santino says, but John just hums and kisses his shoulder, crowding him against the sink. The mirror is fogged except where Santino had wiped it so see himself, and now he watches just how well John’s large hands fit on his hips, how his dark hair brushes against his shoulder matching the bruises, and how careful he traces his kisses to the other shoulder, reminiscent of what he’d done in bed.

Santino is filled with need, blood rushing to the surface of his skin so quickly he might go light-headed. John kisses behind his ear and traces a hand up Santino's thigh, racking the towel up until he he's pressing it over Santino's cock. It twitches in his hand and John look at him in the mirror. His eyes go dark, and at once Santino knows all the promises held within them.

It’s not the same as in the bed. It’s not even in the realm of it. When John bends him over there’s no tenderness to it, just a hard hand on the nape of his neck pushing him forward. John removes his towel, exposing him to the cold air, and pushes two fingers inside him where he’s loose and pliant. Santino doesn’t know if John uses lube, he can’t see anything, but he can feel the burn of John fucking into him. His thighs tremble, exhausted, as John snaps his hips.

When Santino’s hand ends up on the mirror, his breath clouding it, it’s because of the intensity of John’s thrusts, hard, brutal, and so so good, they threaten Santino's sanity. It feels as if John’s looked inside his mind and seen all his terrible needy desires. Worse, an so much better, is the fact that John wants to _fulfill _them right there.

“Fuck, John, yes--”

It’s quick: it’s what it was supposed to be before the rules changed. His muscles finally give out and Santino slumps, laying on the granite top, legs trembling. He turns to look at John over his shoulder, and can’t stop once he does because it’s mesmerizing, absolutely terribly preoccupying to watch him chase his release.

John comes inside him. When he pulls out his come runs down Santino’s thigh so he traces it with his fingers, stuffs it back into him, then goes to his knees, and eats Santino out. Santino loses his voice like that, coming on John’s fingers and tongue.

They end up in the shower, then back into the bed. He wonders if it would be like that if he stayed over more often.

#### -

The empire has not fallen by the time Santino returns to the fold. He’s in old clothes, his lips are red from kissing John the whole morning, and he’s without his usual perfume, a taste of Moroccan coffee on his tongue.

He slips upstairs to change, picks up Ares, and heads for Viggo who has, by now, calmed down. They sit together and go over the casualties, and over what he wants to do; which Viggo has decided is nothing.

There is too much to do to handle the organisation, and by the time they have cleaned up the mess and overseen everything a week has passed. It’s then that Viggo breaks.

“No more fuckups, Santino," Viggo warns, his eyes severe.

There is no arguing. However, where Viggo has calmed, the men remain shaken. Kirill finds him eventually in the Red Circle, and when Santino asks if peace is on the table he shakes his head.

“I told him to push for retaliation,” Kirill says, “but he won’t budge.”

Santino wonders how long he can postpone talking to Emilio. If he doesn’t do it, Viggo himself will, and then he will find out Santino has been pulling him by his nose.

An unsettling thought, one Santino doesn’t want to consider but has ran in his mind over and over until the feeling of Viggo’s hands around his throat is more like a memory.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about the Red Circle anymore, or about Iosef who has decided to keep scarce after his public embarrassment.

Santino uses one of the private rooms to change, and leaves early through the back exit. The collection will finally be open to the public in a week, but Santino has to attend a private showing for investors and potential buyers who will, much to his amusement, be surprised at the lack of price tags and realize that they’re in a museum, not a gallery.

They arrive and Santino heads for the expo, Ares falling behind to check with security before mixing inconspicuously with the guests.

The rooms, previously inhibited only by the museum staff, Santino and John, now is littered with two dozen select individuals. Santino grabs a glass of champagne and joins them.

Mingling has always been his thing. To be sure, he has no patience for people any more than Gianna, but he knows how to keep a relaxed smile and ingratiate himself to garner connections. It’s the one thing keeping him afloat. He knows people, and he _ knows _ people, and soon, with his base in the Red Circle where he can gather all the leverage on the city he wants in Viggo’s name, he will know even more.

He turns on the charm, be it that he’s talking with contemporaries his age, sons, daughters, nieces and nephews of old money, or be it mature audience. All want to be heard. All want the attention on them specifically; a certain ego is necessary to withstand they position and class.

Santino is happy to chat learned nonsense on the paintings as long as he gets what he wants. In New York it’s all about who you know.

He is listening to a rather unimpressive hedge fund kid who has, in the first five minutes of the conversation, managed to talk about his abroad trips and casually mention exactly what kind of cars he drives on his “crazy adventures” when Santino sees Ares in the corner of his eyes. She is subtly signing _ trouble, behind you _, so Santino turns around and notices a handful of men just entering the room.

Though cleaned up in suits, Santino cannot miss the tattoos peaking up from the collar. He recognizes the men. Sinaloa.

Santino feels his smile widening from anger. He has always had that unfortunate tick.

The men seem to recognize him on sight but rather than carving a path to him, they go the roundabout way, passing the artwork which now, Santino thinks, is definitely not secured enough.

From the corner of his eye, Santino follows the progression of the apparent leader. The head of Sinaloa would never come here, but he has lieutenants, and one of them eventually sidles up to Santino.

The room has grown cold. Even though they don’t understand, the people have sensed tension, their minds warning them that something's happening, something they should not be involved with or privy to. But these are not sheep like the rest. They don’t care for anyone’s presence but their own, so instead of leaving they stay and pretend nothing is happening at all. Even the hedge fund kid tries to talk, but a single look from the Lieutenant manages to make him turn tail.

Santino appreciates the audacity anyway. Both the kid's and the lieutenant's. 

“You missed the champagne by the entrance,” Santino notes, having the first word.

The man sizes him up, even a head shorter. Santino expects he’s armed to the teeth. Santino really should get in the business of carrying a gun or perhaps knives.

“You’re the smart-mouth managing the local bratva right? Italian. What has the world come to.”

Santino has never been keen on others learning his face. Sinaloa shouldn’t have known about him at all.

“You might have mistaken me for Tasarov Jr.”

“No, no, it’s you,” the man replies. “You handled the transition seven years ago. And you’ve been handling transitions since then, haven’t you?”

Santino quirks an eyebrow. “Are you in need of my services?”

The man looks at him then chuckles. Santino didn’t think so. Sinaloa doesn’t have transitions. They overwhelm and dominate indiscriminately.

“If it concerns you instigating another takeover than you can say we are _ very _ interested.” The man puts his hands inside his pockets, nodding towards a painting.

_La battaglia di Custoza by Giovanni Fattori_, Santino’s mind offers immediately. Painted in 1880, it depicts the first battle of the Third Italian War of Independence where the Kingdom of Italy realised that the Austro-Prussian War gave them a great opportunity to seize back control of Venetia from the Austrians and reunite the Italian peninsula. Yet, the Italians failed miserably to reclaim Venetia, later only gifted to them by France.

The symbolism isn’t lost on Santino, and neither is the threat.

“What--”

“You’re reaching,” the man cuts him off. “Or you’re doing exactly what you want. I don’t see Viggo going for Hell’s Kitchen, and I see all the reasons why Carlo would go for East Side.”

“Or perhaps you’re hoping for mutually assured destruction?”

“All I know is who I’ll be throwing my weight behind, and it won't be the Russians,” the man says. He walks past Santino, patting him on his chest, before leaving the exhibit, his men following after him.

Santino watches him leave, and wishes that, for once, Gianna were there to demand heads on platters or promise ruin. He breathes, glances at Ares before washing himself off of this feeling. He isn't the one to get angry. He is patient. Santino tunes back into the room, which has returned to normalcy once the intruders are gone.

Santino looks back at the painting. He sees what he’s doing in a collection of colorful lines, not particularly impressive in any other way but their age. He wonders, for the first time, if there’s meaning in Massimo sending him to New York with this collection. It’s the kind of thing his uncle would do. He hates it at once. He needs words, not veiled warnings that he can’t unsee now.

Austria crushed the Italian army, even though they had more men. Overconfidence. Is that going to be his downfall?

Santino stares at the painting. For survival, he concludes, he must aim higher. For the head. For the crown.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thanks for reading :)

There’s a suit from the dry-cleaners on the backseat when Santino gets into the car, his shoes in one box, accessories in the other. Ares floors it without request; he only has half an hour to get ready and he so can’t wait to wash out the grime that has collected on him after spending time in the Red Circle.

Knowing his comings and goings would be reported to Viggo, another reason why he has refused additional security so many times, Santino has reserved a hotel room. Ares hands him the electronic keycard when they stop, and Santino gets to his room in record time, having one of the workers help him out with his suit.

Tonight, he’s taking John out to Eleven Madison Park, and he’s going to look his best -- which in the current culture of New York means dressing expensive but looking low-effort.

He scrubs up, applies perfume in strategic places -- he will never forget _that_ lesson from Gianna -- and agonizes over his hair. Somewhere between Ares arriving in the room and him finally deciding that it’s the best it can get, Gianna calls.

Santino has to put her on loudspeaker, otherwise he’s going to be late to pick up John.

“Heard what happened with the La Bernardin,” Gianna says in Italian. “How are you handling dear _ papa _?”

Santino sneers. “It’s all the same -- old men and their peace. He won't act yet.”

“You need to give him one _good_ reason,” Gianna says just around the time Santino gets to his cufflinks. “Massimo has remained irritatingly stubborn about--”

Santino listens to her as he ties his tie, slips into his shoes and gets the jacket. New York may be deep in bitter winter, but Santino refuses to bend to earmuffs, boots, and other paraphernalia.

“Santino? Are you listening to me?” Gianna demands when she realizes that she has been ignored for some time.

“How can I not when you’re talking my ear off,” Santino says as Ares grabs the door and they head out. “But I must leave you now. Plans.”

“You’re not taking this seriously at all are you,” Gianna accuses.

Santino waits for the elevator and says, “Gianna, if that man doesn’t budge I know what I have to do. Talking with Emilio isn’t my favorite idea but I have considered it. And now is my break from all that consideration.”

“God you’re still fucking John aren’t you?” she asks, crude to no end but also sounding astonished, no doubt, at his stupidity. “You are,_ dear God _, you challenge death at every turn.”

“That’s why you love me,” Santino smirks.

Gianna makes a disgusted noise and hangs up. She has never handled him being smug well.

Ares drives the well-trodden path down to Brooklyn. It’s a relief to see John when he climbs in. He kisses Santino’s cheek in hello and Santino notes that, though the suits have changed only in their thickness, the tie peaking above the folds of his heavy coat is the one Santino had gifted to him. He refuses to acknowledge it, mainly because he knows John is waiting for the comment Santino otherwise would have made. Still, John catches him looking at it, prompting him to twitch an eyebrow in his direction, quietly amused, which only makes Santino want to do something, anything, as revenge. Right now, Santino settles for a hand on his knee.

Ares drives quickly, used to the streets by now, and Santino is forever grateful she’s dropped the subject and now simply lets Santino get away with groping John when he can. It’s difficult to resist gravitating towards him.

Small talk isn’t really John’s thing, so the ride is mostly quiet. Ares drops them off and they head into the, quite frankly, extraordinary restaurant. Definitely one of the best establishments for fine-dining and service, which means they get their coats taken, get seated, and introduced to their server in rhythm with the soft music coming from strategically hidden speakers.

“You didn’t specify fancy,” John says, though he doesn’t particularly stand out. Money speaks and his suit certainly looks expensive enough to fit in with the crowd that can afford a four digit number on their check by the end of the evening.

“Wouldn’t call it that exactly,” Santino replies.

John gives him a patronizing look. “Appropriate doesn’t fit an eleven course tasting menu.”

“Nonsence, John, appropriate is wherever you and I fit,” Santino retorts and focuses on the wine list.

He glances above the menu and sees John’s eyes narrowing, which only makes him grin. John huffs. He shakes his head and looks over Santino’s shoulder; a tic he can’t seem to get rid off even during down-time.

John leaps and grabs Santino just before he can asks and his ears fill with a roar of an explosion. He hit the floor, catching himself onto his hands. Dazed, Santino blinks a couple of times, hearing distorted from the noise of breaking glass, the alarms, and the fire that has caught the white curtains and painted everything a familiar orange-red.

John doesn’t _ help _ him up as much as he _ picks _him up and stands him onto his legs.

“We need to leave, _ now _,” he barks, if it wasn’t clear enough.

Santino follows after him to the exit, but when they get there bullets whiz past their heads, catching glass that hasn’t shuttered from the explosion.

John takes a deep breath and grabs his own pistol. With so many other people running out, the kitchen evacuating as well, it’s difficult to tell who’s a civilian and who’s not, but somehow John shoots and he hits his targets.

The drive-up in blocked by three cars, pinning them in the spot. Their best strategy is retreating through the kitchens but Santino knows that they will be chased. There’s nothing worse than having someone shooting at you from the back.

_ The explosion is most probably from a grenade launcher too _, Santino thinks. Just like Le Bernardin.

People disperse, running away from the guns and from the people shooting them. Just in time too, for Ares to ram right into one of the cars cornering them, pushing it forward between the building and other two cars, providing Santino and John at last a semblance of cover.

However, they’re still between a burning building and the car, and John, in his infinite wisdom, decides to push it.

He reloads and says, “Go to the car.”

Santino does. When a professional killer instructs you to do something while trying to save your life, you do that. He covers him from his position by the broken doors, and when Santino manages to get into the backseat, he sees Ares is bleeding.

“Do we still have guns in this car?” he asks.

She nods and signs, _ Behind the seats. _

Santino struggles to get it down, but when he does he finds the pistols, and something much better.

Santino clicks his tongue, and thinks vengeance.

Bullets are still whizzing past him, denting the car, ruining the tires, but most of the fire seems to be drawn by John who has, when Santino looks, made carnage half-way through. Santino watches, transfixed, as he shoots, rolls, and twists the bodies of his opponents as if he has lived through this, seen it all before, and he knows in advance what’s coming. He would look bored, a master facing children, were his shoulders not curled in obvious furry.

_ Baba Yaga _, Santino thinks. John doesn’t care. Not really. His blood is boiling, and when it does he kills. It’s what he's been doing since he's walked down that gangway.

Santino takes only a moment to be impressed before he has to step out to get a clear shot at the cars blocking the exit. He pulls the trigger and one of the cars bursts aflame, carried by a much larger explosion than the one in the restaurant. He doesn’t wait. There's no need to reload either. He takes aim and the second car is a mass of groaning, melting plastic when he lowers the launcher.

_ Tit for tat _, he thinks.

By then, John is done with the rest of the attackers, and he’s rushing over. There’s a moment when he looks at Santino, as if expecting a comment. There’s something uncertain in his gaze, but Santino doesn’t have time to discern what it is; police will be coming shortly and they need to get out of there.

“The kitchen has to have another exit,” John says. “Take your stuff, we should torch this car too.”

They do, and they run back into the burning building whose fire alarm has refused to quiet down, the sprinklers and sooth making a mess of them, until they’re on the other end, in an alley.

Santino feels a twinge in his side just a moment before he realizes they’ve been ambushed. John seems to have expected it because he’s quick to decorate the alleyway with bodies missing most of their central nervous system.

Then, as normally as they can, they walk a few blocks before getting a taxi. It’s only when Santino’s folding himself into the back seat that he notices something isn’t quite right. He’s felt adrenaline rushes and adrenaline crashes before, but he’s still riding high. It’s not fatigue.

John catches him wincing as he presses a hand to his side. He groans as he folds himself into the backseat of the taxi, pain blooming now that he's aware of it. When his hand comes away, he sees it’s red. For a moment he considers the fabric bleeding color, or someone else bleeding on him, but the same splotch is on his shirt, and panic hits only when he lifts his gaze and sees John staring at him.

Santino quickly presses a hand to the wound.

“Change of plans,” John says, “We’re heading to the Red Circle.”

There’s a tightness in John's voice that Santino can feel in his gut which refuses to stop flipping.

They shot at him. They actually shot him. It’s a mantra that repeats even as he staggers through the back entrance of the Red Circle, up a level where he’s wrenching the doors open and depositing himself on the examination table saying, “I was shot.”

The doctor -- now Santino really appreciates picking his own staff -- doesn’t even blink.

There’s too much blood. _ There’s really too much blood _, Santino thinks as the wound is washed and examined. He focuses so much on it he forgets anything else until the doctor tells him, “A flesh wound. I’ll patch it up, but nothing serious.”

Santino breathes a sigh of relief but where it would have downed him, now he is consumed with anger. He is going to gouge out Emilio’s eyes and feed him his own fucking guts.

There’s a rather loud knock on the doors just after Santino’s been bandaged. Ares lets Kirill in. He takes in Santino on the examination bed, Ares cleaning her forehead wound in the mirror, John's angry set of shoulders, their appearance, and concludes the right thing.

“There was an attack,” Kirill says.

“I know,” Santino snarls, “I was there.”

“And...” Kirill trails off, eyes falling on John. John who has refused to sit down, who paces like a wild animal on a leash, who Santino kind of wants to take home and wash, maybe wind down with him over a glass of bourbon, and who he still wants to kiss because he saw him, saw him in action, and felt vindicated in every and each belief he’s held.

Santino shakes his head. Kirill nods in agreement.

He gets off the bed. “I should head to the hotel,” he says for everyone’s benefit. He had not planned to spend the evening like this. His mood couldn’t be worse.

He looks at Kirill. “Think you can get us a car?”

“Certainly,” Kirill says and leaves. The doctor follows suit after a glance from Santino.

“Will you head there as well?” Santino asks John.

“Better not,” he says. “Viggo doesn’t know, does he?”

“No,” Santino concedes, both to the heavy gaze, the tone, and the demand. “It wouldn’t look good.”

John exhales, his tense stubborn drawn body reaching for him. His grip on Santino’s bicep is stone-hard. Even then, Santino gets the feeling John’s holding back.

Santino remembers what he’d seen: the impossible lethal capability of the man in front of him, the very method with which he’s earned so much blood on his hands they have pruned from it. At once it’s just like the first day he met John. His mind is screaming at him _ danger _, the red flag on the beach insistent and demanding attention.

Santino, just like then, goes diving into the water anyway. He lifts his chip up and himself on his toes to plant a kiss on John’s firm, unresponsive lips. “I’ll see you later then.”

There’s a long moment wherein John looks at him, into him, _ through _him. Then he releases a breath and nods. John lets him leave.

In the new car, Ares asks, _ Want to drop by the hotel for the change of clothes? _

“No,” Santino says, “the more pathetic I look the better. We can use this to flip Viggo.”

Minutes go by, nerves settle, and the silence lingers. At the red light, Ares signs, _ Didn’t think he’d let you leave. _

“Who?” Santino frowns.

Ares gives him a look.

“Oh, John? Why not?”

_ You don’t see him like I do _ , she signs. _ You didn’t see his face when he realized you got shot. _

It’s true, Santino didn’t. But he also knows John doesn’t usually pull faces. So he says, “His usual ambivalence?”

She shakes her head. _ The devil _.

She drops it after that, delivering Santino to the doors of the hotel. Santino has an agenda, a plan, and he knows just how to work it.

#### -

Viggo rushes to him, hands cradling his cheeks, demanding, “Are you alright?” There’s real concern in his voice, eyes wide, more honest than what any person in their line of work should be.

Santino hates how he feels transported to the past, remembering the same two hands cupping his forehead to check for a fever, squeezing his tiny shoulders, calling him, “Santya.”

He feels the back of his throat burning. In his ruined, bloodied suit, plastered hair, and with a stagger, he presents an appealing picture of vulnerability perhaps for the first time in a long time. Santino is aware of every minute detail, and just how high the stakes are. He has to say the right thing.

“They shot me,” Santino says. “They fucking shot me.”

“Let me see,” Viggo demands. Santino sits on the couch and shows him the bandage. “Went for Red Circle to the doctor to patch me up first. Didn’t know if it was critical or not.”

Viggo's face twists into something truly terrible. Anger has always been a family trait from both sides.

“Jesus Christ Santino what were you thinking,” Viggo says, raising his voice. “You know they bombed the Bernardin. You know we were being attacked and you, you go out to some flashy restaurant?”

Santino frowns. “But...papa...”

“And you refuse to have more backup! You’re as reckless as your brother! I thought I could trust you at least with your own safety!”

Santino takes a breath and fights back every vicious reply crowding his tongue. He leashes the anger in, even though provoked, and waits until Viggo is done berating him for no reason other than he is scared, actually afraid, and he has no idea how to deal with that feeling.

But the anger is not ending. If anything else, it’s feeding itself, until Viggo’s throwing a folder at him saying, “And _ this _ shit!”

Santino opens the folder and feels ground slipping underneath him. Picture upon picture of him and John from, Santino recognizes clearly, their venture to the docks. There’s no mistaking it, no denying it -- there, captured in color, they’re kissing.

He wants to ask where Viggo got it from, but he knows that if he speaks now, he’ll only make everything worse.

“John fucking Wick, Santino? I told you, I _ asked _you to stay away from that man! Do you know how many people he has killed?” Viggo shouts. “And I have to learn this not from you, no not from my own fucking son but from my enemy? From the fucking Bowery? Shit!”

Santino closes his eyes and takes a breath. The Bowery King operates the streets under the 15th. The docks are in his kingdom. Santino was reckless. Just like the Sinaloa, he must have sniffed out a brewing war, saw the trajectory, and took preemptive defensive measures. Mainly, trying to ruin any chance Santino could influence Viggo.

“When did it start, huh Santino? What is this? How long has it been going on?” After a beat, he demands, “Answer me!”

There are no more photos, which doesn’t mean there aren’t more, but that either Viggo is withholding them or the Bowery King only took the chance on his own turf. _A chance he so readily gave him_, Santino thinks embittered. Either way, he cannot admit to months. He cannot admit to anything.

“You don’t want my excuses,” Santino replies. “I don’t have any. I fucked John Wick, once. I did it because I was curious about the man who even you were afraid of. And I could not tell you about it because of this, this reaction, because I know what you would think of me afterwards. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Viggo repeats, mocking. “That’s all.”

Viggo shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling, and sighs. He goes to the bar to pour himself a shot.

“Where were you tonight, Santino?” Viggo asks. He knows. He can _smell_ it.

Santino says, “Having dinner with another one of my dalliances.”

“Man?”

Santino waits a beat. “Yes.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Viggo says. “Is this what you get up to in New York?”

“You know how Massimo is. Massimo would-- it wouldn’t end up very well.” 

Viggo laughs bitterly and says, “No, no it wouldn’t.” There’s an awkward beat, before Viggo adds, “No girls?”

Santino attempts to shrug. “I enjoy their company. I just don’t think it’s smart to introduce anyone into the family yet.”

“Ah,” Viggo says, nodding. _ As if he understands anything _, Santino thinks. As if he isn’t lying through his teeth.

“We will talk what this means for you and your duties inside this family later,” Viggo says, in that tone that Santino knows from numerous times he’s told lesser man ‘we’ll talk about this later’ just to shoot them dead. Santino feels it -- he’s lost Viggo’s confidence, maybe even his trust.

He’s getting fired the moment this mess is swept up and he doubts he’ll be welcomed like this before.

Viggo pours himself another drink and returns to the bigger problem at hand. “The Camorra will just keep escalating. They targeted _ you _ specifically, Santino.”

Heart beating quickly, Santino says, “What’s the overview?”

“There isn’t one,” Viggo says. “They just attacked, middle of our fucking territory. No warning. I learned you were there when I couldn’t get you on the phone.”

Santino considers this. It’s a giant, glaring _ fuck you _ spray-painted with bullets in his skin. Emilio is sending a message: he isn’t scared of the Russians and he’s not scared of the D’Antonios. He’s saying he can take both on. It’s a provocation.

Santino wants to put him down as soon as he can.

“Emilio’s getting cocky,” Santino says. “He still thinks he’s in Italy. Well, I say, if he wants Italy let’s give it to him. A want him dead.”

Viggo nods, looking at his glass. He says, “It’s time to deal with this. Really deal with this.”

Santino feels the win slotting into place.

“Call for a meeting with him. I want all this nonsense to stop.”

And just as it had slotted, it’s wrenched away. Santino’s a great actor, but even he can feel his face falling in surprise. He school it quickly back in place, and says, “I can’t go meet him today.”

“Fuck today,” Viggo says. “But do it quickly. Before Manhattan goes with his fucking grenade launchers.”

Santino waits until he’s back in his room to let out a frustrated yell, and even that is cut off because Ares is knocking on the doors, handing him the charred remains of his phone and the copy which has already been put through with Gianna.

“What the fuck happened?”

Ares shuts the door just before Santino starts yelling.

“He won’t budge. That _ motherfucker _won’t fucking budge.”

“Santino, Santino-- calm the fuck down, and tell me calmly what the fuck happened.”

Santino loathes that he’s on pain medication, that he wants a drink anyway, that Gianna sounds so calm, so unaffected, that she’s bothering him right now before he’s collected himself. He wants to be left the fuck alone to get through this. He wants to be let to think.

Instead he recounts the attack and his conversation with Viggo.

“So,” Gianna in the end says. “He won’t budge. Big fucking deal. You’re still the one meeting with Emilio.”

“I know, I fucking know,” Santino says, impatient, wanting to be done with the conversation. “But I wanted to stay as far away from him as I could.”

“Well, suck it up. You can provoke war when you go have a chat.” She huffs. “Fix it. We’ve already sent manpower to New York. I can’t sugar coat it, and Massimo reads through my bullshit.”

“As if you would ever sugarcoat shit,” Santino replies and ends the call.

#### -

He crashes hard. The adrenaline’s completely worn off by the time he takes the pills for pain the doctor gave him. They make everything worse when they kick in too, making him dizzy, unable to do anything else outside of cleaning himself up and falling asleep.

His phone rouses him. Blood pressure threatening to skyrocket, Santino is prepared to give Gianna a good tongue lashing before he sees it’s John. Softening, he sighs and answers.

“Santino,” John says, and Santino only groans in reply. “Are you asleep?”

“Was. Something wrong?”

“No. I just.” There’s a pause. “Ares dropped off my phone. Wanted to see how you were.”

Santino closes his eyes, licks his lips, and tries very hard to stop wanting to have John next to him right that instant, and furthermore, to stop his innate instinct to snap back one of his usual sassy remarks. He feels like he has something fragile in his hands, and for the first time, he doesn’t want to smash the globe to take the figurine inside.

“You needn’t be concerned, it’ll pass.”

He remembers the way John had held him, both in his arms and in his eyes, and feels heat bloom in his chest with a possessive sort of determined fire that spreads and speaks confessions without needed words for fuel.

“It’s just a graze.”

He hears John exhale. “I know,” he says. That itself is a confession.

Santino feels dizzy, sleepy, high on the pills, and absolutely fucking ruined.

“John,” he says with intensity to carry on a whole sentence. But what should he say? Thank you for murdering people for me? That is outside the realm of this bubble they are both in but seem keen on leaving unlabeled.

He wants to ask, ‘Do you feel like I feel? Do you feel stretched thin, exposed, transparent when you’re with me? Do you regret the lost time we’re not together even if it’s just spent in transport? Is it just me that waits on every reaction, word, touch even when they’re given so freely because they always delight me so?’

But Santino is not made of matter capable of giving voice to any of that. He is not of softness, he is not made to give. It gets stuck in his throat and seconds tick past him, lost. Santino realizes he’s not said anything for a while.

“Yeah. Yes, Santino,” John finally says, with a defeated sort of helpless sigh. However, where it should have been a question, it’s a statement. John isn’t asking him for clarification. He _knows_. He understands. He gets it. It’s the answer to every one of his questions.

“I should let you be,” John says. “Goodnight Santino.”

“Buonasera, John.”

The call disconnects. Santino holds the phone to his chest for longer than he should.

#### -

It takes three days for him to call Emilio. They agree to meet by the docks, in the open, only personal guards allowed. It takes two days to set it up and on the third Santino finally leaves the hotel, gets into the car with Ares, and two other guards.

He’s collected himself; to see him now he would be unrecognizable to the vicious, raw, dirty creature that had walked wounded back to its lair. Appearances are at stake. Santino has to make it appear convincing. When they arrive, Santino gets out of the car and watches Emilio do the same.

Emilio has been his father’s second for years now. The air around him is putrid from overconfidence and certain sadistic tendencies that only people who have grown in the System possess.

His coat is remarkable, but the suit underneath a horrible choice.

“_Buongiorno, Santino, como estai?_” he asks. So it’s to be Italian. _ That’s good _ , Santino thinks, _ easier to conceal his footing. _

“I could ask you the same. Long way from home.”

“Now _ I _ could say the same.”

“I am just fine in New York.”

Emilio’s amused expression slips and his face turns from tentatively handsome to a deformed sort of ugly serious. “You can talk in circles like the best of them but cut the shit. You know why you’re here.”

Santino quirks an eyebrow. “You’re the one who vied for my attention. You tell _ me _ what you want.”

“Back off from the Serbian turf,” Emilio says. Not unreasonable. At least not until he ads, “We’ll also be taking everything to the 6th Avenue.”

“That’s not a couple of streets, that a large chuck of Tarasov territory. Of Bratva territory.”

Viggo had told him, of course, during the vetting, that he could give them certain territories. He knows how bargaining works. Beginning always starts with an unreasonable number, bargaining chips, which gets cut into something agreeable. However, Santino also knows how to be horrible at his job. He needs this war to happen, be it hell or high water.

“And this bullshit with the Marinellas you have going on your other end. My father is not stupid, Santino, he sees what you’re doing. Everyone under the table does.”

“What Massimo does is _ grossly _out of my control.”

Emilio snorts and says, “They’re old men, playing their old-men games. This shit started because of you and your sister.”

“No, this shit started when you decided you wanted to take over Tarasov territory. Now let me tell you want I want: you to fuck off from the Serb territory and keep to your own goddamn turf.”

Emilio laughs. Actually laughs. “That’s not going to happen, Santino. What you will do is get some sense, agree to the terms. You have a day. Otherwise we will come into your turf and we will raze the fucking ground you stand on.”

Santino contains the feeling of triumph and observes as Emilio climbs back into his car and drives off.

On the drive back to the hotel he glances at the rearview mirror at Ares, and she looks back. Santino dials Viggo’s number.

“Yes?”

“He says we have a day to turn in the cocaine operation and the turfs with it.”

“What the fuck did I send you out there to do?”

“He wouldn’t budge. This was no negotiation, of course we wouldn’t give him the cocaine line. It’s like he wants this war to happen.”

“You said a day?”

“Twenty four hours,” Santino clarifies. He looks at his clock. It’s barely pushing noon. “I’m coming in right now so we can plan--”

“No,” Viggo says, cutting him off. “I don’t need you anymore, here or the Circle. Best you stay at the Continental. I’ll be sending Iosef over as well.”

Santino knew it. He has served, and now his services are no longer needed. He’s burned his bridge to Viggo. He wishes he weren’t so disappointed.

“Alright. Viggo--” a lingering moment, “I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

“I am too, Santino,” Viggo replies.

The call disconnects. Time to call Gianna.

#### -

Santino has been circling around the Continental, but he really shouldn’t have. The renovation work looks wonderful, especially with the restored left wing. Neither Charon’s stuffy demeanor nor his judgmental eyes -- which feel like he somehow knows exactly what Santino just did, and exactly what will happen -- can ruin the effect. He demonstratively ignores them in fact, and accepts his key to the king-sized room.

Better men have judged him and found him lacking. He doesn’t care for it any more than he cares for tea. Coffee, on the other hand, in the Continental, has improved marginally.

Ares has disappeared into her room. With the Continental’s no-work policy, Santino is as safe as he can be, not to mention that she will be mountain attack on Little Russia soon. Santino’s emptying Viggo’s vault with all the leverage on this city, as soon as the war starts and he has plausible deniability.

John calls around lunch time.

“Just heard about the news.”

“Mazel tov.”

John must hear the noise around him because he says, “Where are you now?”

“The Continetal seemed a smart idea.”

“Come to my house.”

Santino sighs fondly. “That’s very generous, but do you want to risk a grenade launcher again?”

John’s silence is telling.

Amused, Santino says, “Come over and we’ll have lunch. The menu actually isn’t terrible. I’m shocked.”

“I’ll be there,” Jon replies, curt as usual. Santino hums as he disconnects.

The lounge is empty this time of the day. People who use Continental's services usually prefer room service, considering the personality usually needed for being a fixer constitutes of anti-social psychopathic patients that tolerate people only on the basis of alcohol and sex.

He picks a table in the renovated lounge, the beige and cream fit with the wood paneling, and intently avoid the stares. Emilio was right. Everyone _ does _know.

He’s looking at the wine list when he notices, out of the corner of his eye, a figure approaching. Santino realizes all over again why he usually ignores the Continental -- Winston.

“Mr. D’Antonio. Having a good time with us?”

“It’s been pleasant so far,” Santino replies, a forced smile on his lips.

The older man leers and says, “Do you mind if I join you for a moment?”

Santino considers telling him to fuck off in the nicest possible way but he knows Winston is that type of a persistent person you get rid off quicker if you indulged them.

“Of course, please sit.”

Winston folds himself in the chair across for him with the air of a monarch.

“There’s been _ some _ excitement in the city,” the man says conversationally with a pointed knowing look. “Your countrymen seem keen on liberating New York of her finest establishments.”

“I heard Le Bernardin is already renovating,” Santino replies, sipping his coffee. In truth, Bernardin wasn’t blown up as much as it was strategically scorched. Definitely not on the same level as Eleven Madison. Santino had to pay a steep price for the anti-terrorist unit to be curbed, and golden coins don’t fall out of the sky for him just yet.

“God knows how quickly they’ll get to open. Especially with Eleven Madison Park out of order.”

Santino understands what Winston is doing, which only makes it more irritating. Intimidation works poorly on Santino, mainly because he’s had too much of it from his family so the tolerance is, least to say, strong.

Winston, is so many words, wants to point blame, and say that he hasn’t been subtle in his intentions. That he has been sloppy.

“Hmm. Soon enough you shan’t have to worry about my countrymen at all.”

“Oh I wouldn’t be so certain, Mr. D’Antonio. Today information flies faster than it can be caught and spun.”

Santino’s irritation threatens to boil. Winston has always poked his nose in matters that are none of his business; he doesn’t get to decide who New York belongs to. In this world, he is in the service of those both under the table _and_ the table itself, where Santino expects to be very soon.

Winston’s amused mocking gaze flickers and he looks across Santino’s shoulder and up. Not a moment later, there’s a hand on Santino’s shoulder. Paranoid, Santino turns around, and is relieved to see it’s John finally coming to save him from ravings of an old man.

“John,” Winston says.

“Winston,” John salutes.

Winston looks down at the hand on Santino’s shoulder. There’s a certain stillness to him, as if someone has just drawn a gun and is about to shoot. Santino ignores him.

“Hey.”

John looks down at him. Gentleness is both in his voice and in his touch when he replies, “Hey.”

Santino leans back and John rubs his thumb up his neck, before letting go of him.

“I thought you’d order?”

“I thought so as well,” he says turning to look at Winston.

“I certainly would hate to intrude,” Winston says, standing. “Have a good day.”

It’s amazing how John’s presence has the ability of making people scarce. He will need to employ it in the future.

“Finally,” Santino exclaims. “He’s been talking my ear off the past twenty minutes.”

Amused, John takes his seat and says, “Winston’s not that bad.”

“Not to you, maybe."

“So what are you getting?”

Santino smirks. A victory meal. “I was thinking fois gras.”

#### -

After lunch, a bottle of wine, and a thorough judgmental look John gives him when they go for whiskey, they make it to the room. Santino’s been ignoring his injury the whole day, but it refuses to be ignored further; it flares up just as he’s pushes John against the doors and gets to his knees. He winces, new skin pulling. He always forgets himself.

“Santino,” John says, hand not in his hair, as usual, but on his cheek, tracing his cheekbone far too softly for it to not mean something.

John’s brevity is always filled with meaning. He doesn’t speak in words but in symbols, just like the world under the table that they live in. Now, Santino knows calling his name is a replacement for ‘_You don’t have to, _ ’ and ‘ _ Are you alright? _’ and as much as he hates being thought of as weak, there’s an unfortunate softness that calls to waking softness within him that should have never existed in the first place.

“I can’t believe you’re talking yourself out of a blowjob,” Santino replies.

John’s mouth quirks. “Not talking.”

Santino snorts. “Fine, help me up.”

There’s a hand on his bicep immediately. They do away with their shoes and lift the coats from the floor,Santino happy to slip off his jacket that rattles with the bottle of painkillers.

He’s undoing his cuffs when John crowds behind him, hands tentative on his waist but head insistent over his shoulder. It’s good to know that he’s wanted.

“I thought you were being considerate,” Santino says through a self-satisfied smirk.

“I can be considerate,” John agrees. His teeth graze against his neck, sending shivers down Santino’s spine. It’s a promise.

Still, Santino is satisfied to let this be for a long moment just to feel John pressed against his back, comfortable in his clutch. Is this what he was aiming for when he invited John for dinner months ago? He doesn’t think so.

They begin to sway softly, even with no music.

Finally, Santino says, “I’m not doing any work.”

To which John responds, “When do you ever?”

Santino gasps, turning around to look at him, and he’s greeted with a smile, before John kisses him. He bites his lip in retribution, but the kiss softens anyway as he’s walked back to the bed. John’s hands have become experienced in undressing him: his shirt is thrown over a chair, his pants and underwear pushed down by insistent hands that make it so he’s naked by the time he lays on the bed.

John presses against him, kissing him, his suit rubbing against his skin and giving Santino too many ideas. His fingers are gentle around the wound, focused on it so much John breaks the kiss and looks at where he’s touching, lingering on it entirely too long.

Santino taps him with his knee and says, “I’m up here.”

“How could I forget,” he replies dryly.

Watching, on the other hand, John get undressed is another beast entirely.

There’s a system to it which is hurried up by the fact that Santino is not shy in using his legs and thighs to rub against his cock, at least until John pins them so well he can’t move at all. It sends a thrill up his spine.

Once he’s naked, John presses up Santino’s side and lifts himself up on an elbow so he can lean down and kiss him. The slowness in it is familiar. It’s a callback. Santino knows at once that this is going to be just like before when he hadn’t yet understood everything he needed to when it comes to John. Now he does.

There’s a different kind of fabric to reality when doing this in the late hours. A lot can be excused when packaged with alcohol, most is attributed to the night and a lot is left in it. They make elaborate rituals to feel closeness stolen by the vastness of the city and a culture that breeds distrust and contempt. But it’s still bright outside, however bright it can get during winter in New York, and when John touches him and it’s gentle, it’s because he wants it to be like that. It’s a statement of intent.

Santino reads between the lines and ignores the warning signs, the chain-link fence, barbed wire. What he wants is right there next to him. He’s not letting go of it.

John traces his hands down Santino’s belly, over his hips, calluses skidding up and down his thighs. Gooseflesh breaks out across Santino’s skin but John soothes it, satisfied just to kiss him and touch him until they’re both growing hard.

It’s maddening. It’s absolutely unacceptable and Santino melts anyway.

John wraps a hand around his cock and coaxes him to full hardness until heat is shooting through him so even his ears are burning. He only stops to lube up his fingers, enough to kiss Santino’s brow, before he’s pushing his fingers inside. Santino loses himself in the sensation, especially when he tugs John down to kiss him properly, his other hand working on John’s cock.

Their breaths mingle as they slowly take each other apart, pleasure in the shape of blunt teeth hidden behind two pairs of lips. Santino thinks this is only ever going to be for John. Best hand this tenderness to one person who can either keep it or bury it in his long silences.

John pushes Santino onto his uninjured side and slides into him from behind, rocking maddeningly gently into him.

Santino feels as if he breathes the tension, the pleasure, that if he opens his jaws enough it could leap out. It’s not flaring up, it’s there, crawling under his skin and building with each roll of John’s hips. Explosive pleasure that Santino prefers is overshadowed by this continuous ever-present type, that is is not so much about sex as it is about intimacy. He can feel John completely: his breath in his ear, his heartbeat against his back, hand on his cock, hips meeting hips.

There is no more use for rituals between them. Those excuses haven’t worked for a while have they? John and he had meals because they enjoyed each other’s company, not as a pre-amble to sex, and the alcohol was to savor, to indulge in, to please the other in all possible ways.

Santino grabs John’s hand, orgasm washing over him in overwhelming waves that lick every nerve ending in his body and leave him unable to think.

It doesn’t end. John continues to roll his hips, mouth on his shoulder. Santino’s toes curl as it slips from pleasure to overstimulation that burns in the best way, in all the ways that he likes. Their fingers tangle, and they clutch to each other. In that moment Santino realises he could never give that closeness up. Not for Massimo, Viggo, or anyone else.

Eventually, John comes between his thighs and holds him through it even after their breathing evens.

_ Considerate _, Santino thinks when John cleans him up. He would mock and tease if he didn’t feel so raw. John curls into Santino’s back so he can look at his face, touch his too-serious brow. There’s no other reason for John to let him do this now but the obvious.

Santino feels panic in his throat and sweetness on his tongue, so he keeps quiet and lets himself fall.

#### -

Once curled, they don’t uncurl. They’re in bed, one leg thrown here, the other there. They talk and lapse into silence, try to watch a movie before they realize they like each other better than some rerun of a five year old Oscar nominee. Santino get on and off his phone, and they fuck again, and Santino wishes more then ever they were in John’s home. But it seems John’s brought it with him anyway, growing softer the longer they stay together.

There’s no word from Viggo or Gianna. Santino has fulfilled his purpose and now he’s delegated to the side of the chessboard. They really are the same. War will begin in less than fourteen hours, without his supervision, but at least he’s with John. Despite Viggo, or better put, in spite of him, Santino _has_ John.

He looks down at the man who has his head halfway on his hip and hates that he has to break the reverence of the moment. He plays with John’s hair for a minute more, brushing back the hair from his face.

“John,” Santino says, fingers stilling. “Viggo knows.”

At once, he watches John stiffen up. He forces his fingers to work again. “When I went to the hotel after Eleven Madison he...confronted me about it.”

“How did he know?”

“The Bowery King gave him pictures.”

John’s entire back remains still. He barely even breathes. “What does it mean for you?”

Santino humms. “He told me I am of no more use to him here or in the Red Circle. I burnt the bridge. I probably won’t ever work for him again.”

John finally turns, so he can look at Santino. “Are you fine with that?”

“As long as I get Morcones out of New York.”

John nods. They drift off somewhere after that.

He’s woken up first by John’s phone, then by the shifting in the bed. The light from the en-suite turns on, and he watches through hazy vision as John gets dressed.

Eventually, he forces himself to ask, “What is it?”

John doesn’t startle. He never does. Instead, when he’s dressed, he comes over to kiss Santino’s temple, his cheek, and say, “Work.”

Emilio must have ran somewhere. He’s the only high-profile target Santino can imagine Viggo wanting to eliminate quickly.

Santino lifts himself up so he can kiss John properly, morning breath or not, and curls a hand around his neck for just a moment.

“Let’s meet for breakfast tomorrow, yeah?”

In the dark, John’s face is difficult to parse out. The breath is the giveaway, the hitch and the sigh, the broken line of his eyebrows, as if he’s helpless, when he says, “I’ll be there.”

#### -

The lounge serves breakfast from 6am, sharp, until ten, after which it turns into brunch. It’s eleven when Santino finishes his third cappuccino, his second croissant, and decides that John is late. He pushes away from the table and heads for the lifts that are right next to the lobby.

He considers asking Charon to be called down when John arrives. It would be obvious, but he doesn’t care much for subtlety anymore. If Winston knows, then everyone will eventually get to know too. He walks over, still contemplating it, just in time to spot John.

For a moment, he appears as he should. Then Santino notices his altered gate, feet dragging, how he’s holding his ribs, the bloodstain on his suit, the blood pouring from a cut somewhere on his head.

The others in the waiting area look up, eyebrows rising. Santino feels his heckles raising as well. Last time John looked like this he’d taken on the Sinaloa.

He wants to rush over to him, but he knows appearances are at stake. They always are. Showing the belly in a sea of sharks is a recipe for disaster, so instead he turns to Charon and says, “Doctor in?”

“Always, sir,” he replies.

“Send him up.”

John meets his gaze and holds it until they’re in the elevator. The moment the doors close, John slumps against him and Santino is there to catch him, a shoulder propped under his arm, holding him up. They totter from the elevator to the room that has, thankfully, been cleaned.

He sits John in the chair and demands, “What happened?”

“Caught a grenade,” John says, wincing and hissing as he tries to take off his jacket. His white undershirt is soaked in blood. There must be ribs broken. He smells like singed hair and pork, which only tells Santino that someone’s definitely died in a fire.

“What did Viggo have you do?”

John attempts to undo his shirt buttons, hisses, and Santino smacks his hands away so he can do it in his stead.

John says, “He wanted me to deal with Morcone operation. Just like Sinaloa.”

“But,” Santino’s fingers halt for a moment. “You didn’t have time to prep.”

“I had a couple of hours.”

Santino feels ill. Viggo sent him into a viper's nest. If he did that, he did it to avoid war. He was never going to go all out with the Morcones. Santino had been played for a sucker; he shouldn’t have come to the Continental, he should have been there putting pressure on Viggo until the end.

There’s a knock on the doors and Santino goes to open them and lets the doctor in. He sees the sorry state John’s in and, as usual, refrains from asking questions.

Santino stands on the side and observes as John’s patched up. There are cuts that need stitches, ointments for burns, instructions to go see if there are fractures. John just has bruised ribs, thankfully, but he fell on his hip and it’s all fucked up. Beside the bruises, there are shallow knife wounds, and a concussion.

It’s too much. The more Santino sees the worse the feeling in his chest gets. Viggo sent him to do this. If it were anyone but John they would have been dead long ago. John was burnt and stabbed all because Viggo is a coward. A coward that holds John’s leash..

Santino realizes, not for the first time, that he should have listened to his instincts. He should have gone for the head.

Not only is Viggo afraid of investing, he does it wrong, he doesn’t listen to reason, doesn’t want to do the right steps, refuses to modernize, satisfied in a status quo. Santino could do better if only he had the power Viggo has.

It’s been a familiar thought. Now, he knows; if it isn’t him, he doesn’t want anyone else to have John's leash. It’s unacceptable.

The doctor gives John pain meds, instructions, and says, “But if you still have business to finish--” and gives him another bottle of pills.

Once he leaves, Santino helps John lay down on the bed.

He never thought hurting John would hurt him as well but it doesn’t feel any different than if they’d done it unto him. And Santino, just like John, has always been an eye for an eye type of person.

“What are you thinking?” John asks. Even with his eyes closed, he knows Santino must be watching him.

Santino considers his words from his perch on the chair he’d dragged to the bedside. He doesn’t know if John likes company when he’s wounded; he knows how Ares gets and she loathes to be seen as weak. They’re like wounded animals. They need to lick their wounds for a while before they're ready for society again.

“Viggo,” Santino says.

“No war.”

“No war.”

“Did you blow up the HQ?”

“No,” John says. “Viggo called me off. But I’d already killed most of them by then.”

_ Called off _ , Santino thinks and doesn’t get a good feeling from it_. _

If there was no war, then Viggo will know who robbed him blind from under his nose. Ares reported success minutes ago. Santino licks his lips, and considers Winston cryptic message. The realization only proves real when his phone rings and he sees it’s Viggo.

“Where are you?”

“The Continental. What’s happened?”

“It’s done. Come in so we can deal with the fallout.”

“Alright,” Santino replies and the line goes dead. Then, only moments later, John’s phone rings.

“It’s Viggo,” John says and answers with the loudspeaker on.

“John,” Viggo says, sounding marginally more nervous. “Have you finished?”

“Yeah,” John replies.

“Come in. I’ve got your contract ready. There’s only one more thing to do.”

The line goes dead. Santino looks at the phone, puzzled, and says, “Viggo has your contract?”

“Yeah,” John answers.

“You want to leave Tarasovs?”

“Can’t really keep doing this,” John says, gesturing to himself that's become one big bruise.

“And what, you would freelance?”

“Santino,” John says. His eyes are open, imploring, he’s sitting up even though he shouldn’t be, the idiot. “I could move around more. Have more freedom. Be more...available.”

At once, Santino understands. He wanted to break the contract for him. Certainly because of him. Santino looks at him for a long moment. Gianna was right. They are both fools, and him most of all.

Santino presses his hands to his face and sighs. “Did you kill Emilio? He should have been the leader of the Camorra.”

“No. He wasn’t there.”

Santino nods. “Viggo knows. I stole all his leverage on New York, his money, and pushed him into war. But there’s no war. He must have talked with Emilio.”

“Santino--”

“We should come in. And deal with him.”

When he looks at John, he seems to understand what those words mean. “One final fucking miracle,” Santino says, as he takes his phone to text Ares.

#### -

Guns are a second-nature accessory in their world. Santino rarely carries one, relying on his guards, but he knows how to shoot, and he knows how to shoot to kill.

All of the warning bells in his mind go off when he enters the hotel. There are too many guards, and too many eyes on him. They’re let through the lobby, and nobody stops John to check him for weapons. In the elevator, Santino is reminded of the first time he’d seen John, and just how quickly Viggo had dismissed Iosef and Avi. How he didn’t want John near family. And here John is now, riding with him in the elevator, no additional guards beside Ares.

He should have blown Viggo’s brains out the moment he confronted Santino with those pictures. He had the chance, and he missed it. He won’t miss again.

The elevator dings and the doors open. At once, Santino sees Viggo in front of his desk, Iosef sitting on the couch next to Avi, Kirill standing near the doors and -- his gut drops -- Emilio at the bar.

A trap. How obvious. How entirely stupid. He was right.

Santino doesn’t stagger. He walks inside, confident, until Viggo says, “A-a that’s enough.”

John sidles up to his left, Ares to his right.

“John,” Viggo says, holding up a paper. “Here’s your contract. I said only one thing left, didn’t I? Shoot my piece of shit son if he decides to do anything stupid.”

At once he sees John turning his back to the wall, drawing away from him. Viggo seems pleased with that reaction. Santino isn’t bothered.

“Emilio,” Santino says baring his teeth, “How nice to see you in one piece.”

“No talking yourself out of this one, Santino,” Emilio says. “Your father and I had a very nice long chat about the shit you’ve been pulling.”

Santino looks at Viggo. “I didn’t realize you were friends with people who actively invade your turf.”

“Shut it,” Viggo says.

Santino calculates. It’s five against three, and Kirill has a clear line to Ares. Emilio, on the other hand, is obstructed by the bar, though Santino imagines John can still shoot him. Avi would fumble, open for either of the two. That leaves Viggo and Iosef. No matter how quick, Santino knows he’d earn at least one bullet if he were to take a shot.

“We figured you all out,” Iosef says, the smug little shit. “You were pushing us to go to war so you would clear the way for your _ real _ family to have a seat at the table.”

Santino wishes he were happier about that. But ever since he’s realized Massimo and Viggo are interchangeable, he knows he’s just given a mountain-lion for a cougar. _ Morto un papa, se ne fa un altro. _

“It was because you took the Matinellas that we had to push in the first place. It was you and your sister who orchestrated everything,” Emilio replies.

Santino smiles, angry. “What I wanted was to expand. Both to the Table and through New York. It would have been a win-win. Tasarov’s get more turf, more money, D’Antonio’s get a bid at the seat.”

“You could have asked,” Viggo says, serious as the grave.

“And you would have agreed? Please. You would have felt you were playing second fiddle to Massimo, and you couldn’t appear _ weak _.”

“Well, doesn’t matter anymore. You’re fucked.” Iosef concludes far too cheerfully for comfort.

Santino feels the nerves in the room skyrocket. He notes the weapons in the room, just a hand grab away, and looks at Emilio, at Viggo, at Kirill-- he stops. Kirill gives him a look and gives an imperceptible nod. He looks at Iosef.

At once Santino feels the tables turning.

“What fate befalls me? A bullet?”

“Oh no,” Viggo chuckles before it turns into a growl. “You betrayed me. I will squeeze the life out of you with my own two hands.”

“But first,” Emilio says, the voice of reason. “I want you to call your uncle. I want you to give us the Matinellas. And you will be telling us where you hid your father's stash.”

“I don’t think--”

“You don’t really have a choice,” Emilio replies, taking a gun, and pointing it at him, all smiles.

Santino nods. He reaches into his breast pocket, and he hears, “Slowly, Santino.”

He pulls out his phone with his left hand.

Santino dials Gianna. If she learns how much he failed she will never let him live it down. It will be leverage she has on him, over Massimo, that he cannot hand over. So he pretends it connects. “Gianna!” he says, “Emilio has me. He wants the turf we’ve taken. Talk with Massimo. I know--”

The first bullet whizzes past and connect with Emilio’s temple. Then it’s just a matter of impulses: Ares goes for the biggest threat, Viggo, shooting him in the chest, while Kirill blows Iosef’s brains out from behind.

“Jesus Christ--” Avi says, and Santino takes his own gun out just to shut him up.

The dust settles, and Santino nods at Kirill. Then he walks over to Viggo, who’s bleeding out, mouth filled with blood. He wants to gloat. He wants this all to be one very big happy occasion. All the does is shoot him in the head. He's finished it.

_ What now? _, Ares asks.

_ House takes all. I’m the house now. _

“Kirill,” he calls.

“Sir.”

“Are the men still keen on going to war?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Task a group. I want the rest of Morcone’s operation razed. I want to know where their operations are, what they are, and I want their product.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then, Santino dials a number he’d not called for a while. “I need a dinner reservation for four.”

#### -

John doesn’t collapse. It’s not in him to do so, but Santino still leads him away to one of the conference rooms to have a seat while Santino talks business with Gianna. He needs to talk with Abram as quickly as he can before he can man a response.

The transfer of power won’t be easy. There will be those who will protest. He hopes Kirill will quell most of it, but be that as it may, he has weeks of work ahead of him. But that’s not important now. What’s important is that Kirill calls in a job done, and Gianna says Calvanos are moving in Chicago. By the end of the day Morcones will be limited to Italy only. Then, once their seat is taken, Gianna will make sure to remove them from the playing field entirely.

“This is more than bargained for, Massimo will be happy,” Gianna says as if Massimo is ever happy, the bitter bastard.

“I’ll need to cut the ties with the Bratva. Rebrand. Our people can move in by the end of the week.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Gianna replies, dismissive. She hangs up on him.

Santino stares at his phone. The conference room is large, but the glass is still partially opaque, which means they can just see Charlie’s crew in the office. He leans back into his chair and looks at John, who still has his contracts in his hands. “You should go home. Rest. I will see you.”

Santino follows him out of the building and into one of the cars anyway.

#### -

The Morcone operation in the States is gone. Santino takes over all the facets of the Tasarov operation, including Abram’s chop shop. The vacant positions are filled with loyalists, non-bratva Russians and Italians.

A week later, Massimo flies over to confer with the Table. He’s elected, and the Camorra seat is given to him. Santino is expected to kiss the ring so he does.

Gianna visits with him as well, but stays in the Continental. They have lunch, where halfway through John walks in, most of his aches healed up, and Santino offers his cheek to be kissed. Santino introduces him, and John joins them, despite Gianna’s heckles being raised.

“So John,” she says, “I hope you’re prepared to work for us now.”

John levels her with a look. “I’m an independent contractor.”

Gianna’s breath stutters and she turns alarmed eyes at Santino.

“Viggo released him before I could stop it,” Santino lies. It’s him who’d handed John the contract. It will mean much for John to be independent. It will mean he is nobody’s but Santino’s.

“And you have not tried to convince him to re-sign?”

Santino ignores her imploring gaze and focuses on his duck breast. “He’s as difficult as you, I’m afraid.”

Massimo, on the last day of his stay, and the second time Santino sees him, says, “You did well Santino. For me, and for the family.”

It’s a backhanded compliment. It says he didn’t expect anything from him at all. His statement of familial importance is telling as well. He does not think much of Santino anymore; not after he’s shot his own father. Massimo knows that he could be next. It's strange, knowing all of this, now that Santino has learned to hear the unsaid. He was happier not knowing but he will use it all the same; it seems John’s particular ways have rubbed off on him.

“Thank you,” he replies. Massimo measures him up and enters his plane.

The New York empire is his to command, insomuch that it agrees with Massimo’s future visions. There will be changes, and not all for the good. However, most of them will propel them further.

Gianna gives him a kiss on the cheek, and climbs in after her father. Santino gets a feeling he’s missing something.

“One day,” he tells John once the private jet is in the air, “when Massimo dies, it will be Gianna on the throne.”

John gives him a look. They walk back to the awaiting car.

“That day I will need you to be Baba Yaga for me. Can you do that?”

“Santino,” John says, laying a hand over his once they're in the back seat. “You don’t have to ask.”

Santino wants to say good, but he imagines he will be in need of John’s services more than just once.

“Your contract--”

John squeezes his hand. “Santino-- Yes.”

Santino sighs, shakes his head, and smiles. Sometimes, John knows him too well.

Ares drives them into Manhattan. They have a reservation waiting, and a bottle of whiskey to catch.


End file.
